The full shotgun story

I remember the “rites of passage” celebrated by our family.  One was for each boy to shoot Granddaddy’s double-barreled shotgun, which had double triggers and double hammers.  I remember my Grandmother consoling my brother after he had “pulled the trigger,” or should I say “triggers,” in his transition to manhood.

Imagine the scene!  A gun almost as long as my brother is tall.  As, my brother approached his personal gauntlet, my Grandfather said, “If you’re going to load both barrels, only cock one hammer.”  My Grandfather then said, “If you’re going to cock both hammers, pull the back trigger first.”  

My brother, certain of his skill, as any soon to be adult, thirteen-year-old can be, pulled the front trigger first.  Ah, the wisdom of age.  As the recoil of this ancient instrument of death and mayhem blasted against his tender, and now bruised and painful shoulder, his “little pinky” slipped off the front trigger and neatly applied enough pressure to the back trigger to discharge the second shotgun shell.

Now, my brother had started the exercise in the standing position, but he was now approaching a reclined position, as his body rapidly flew ground-ward.  Therefore, no one was absolutely certain where the second blast was going to be directed.  As a result, all of the spectators became participants, as each man and child attempted to reach the ground before my brother.  The surreal scene is etched in my memory.  I’m not sure who won that race, but we all finished with our faces buried in the grass or dirty, depending on from where we began our journey earthward.

My brother, of course, had taken the journey with a companion – the old “long tom,” double barreled, double hammered, double triggered shotgun.  When the second shell was discharged, the only risk was to an orbiting satellite, as my brother’s body was parallel to the ground and the old cannon was perpendicular to my brother’s body.  When the danger was over, and there was significant and real danger for a moment, we all began to laugh and to enjoy a tale, which would remain fixed in each of our minds for the rest of our lives.  To this day, when I think of my Grandfather, I think of shotguns and his old double-barrel, double triggered, double hammered, long tom.  By the way, perhaps because of superior judgment or inferior courage, I never shot it.

Similarly, one of my favorite stories of my Father involves a shotgun.  Our family had only one gun when I was a child, a single-shot, break-open, four-ten.  Occasionally, my brother and I would get a box of shells, and go bird hunting.  Let me quickly add the birds were extraordinarily safe.  On this occasion, my brother and I were out “hunting.”  Of course, with two brothers and one gun, which shot only one time, it was always difficult to remember whose turn it was to shoot.  At one point in our safari – about two hundred yards from our house – I knew it was my turn to shoot for two reasons:  I had the gun and I could out run my brother!

As I ran down the pasture, with my brother in pursuit, I heard the voice of God.  I knew it was the voice of God because my entire life flashed before my eyes, which reportedly happens to people when they are in imminent threat of death.  Most of you have never heard the audible voice of God, but I did.  I heard a loud shout, which came from the direction of our garden where my father was plowing.  It sounded like the trumpet of Gabriel announcing the judgment of God.  I recognized it instantly as my father.

As I stopped in my tracks, I looked up and saw my father walking toward my brother and me.  At this point, I knew exactly what my father was going to say:  “Is....that....gun.... loaded?”  I had several options.  I could walk toward my father, bringing God’s judgment upon my head in half the time – you see I knew the answer to the question – or I could just stand there and wait.  I waited.  When my father got into conversational distance, I heard the words of doom, as he said, “Is...that...gun...loaded?”

Later in my life, I would become committed to telling the truth, but at this point in my growth and development, I was not.  However, the circumstances were such that I was not dealing with a fool.  If I said, “No, Daddy, this gun isn’t loaded,” he would simply reach over, break open the gun and catch the live, unspent shell, which would issue forth.  Ten seconds did not seem like a reasonable reprieve for the additional penalty of a lie, so on balance, I said, “Yes, sir!”

Unfortunately, my father did not yell or shout at us.  He simply, quietly said, “Go to the barn and cut a rein off each of your bridles.”  Now, I was the negotiator, so I said, “Could we just cut the rein off of one bridle?”  He didn’t answer audibly, but I heard the voice of God again.  This time it emanated from my father’s eyes.  We went to the barn and returned with two seven-foot-long pieces of leather about an inch wide and a half-inch thick.

My brother was older so he was “educated” first.  The noises from his mouth and the motions of his body suggested to my father that he had learned his lesson, so after a short while, my father turned his attention to me.  I thought to myself, “Hey, I did the crime; I ought to pay the time!”  So, I determined to “take it like a man.”  Each time the former hide of some long-forgotten cow made contact with the hide of my backside – which seemed to be destined to shortly be my former hide – I winced, but did not move and did not cry out.  Now, I wasn’t being obstinate, only brave.  However, each time my father sought to merge the cow’s hide with my hide without getting the result of wailing and writhing, he was encouraged to try harder.

Soon, he tired of this exercise – I had tired of it long before him, and I was certain that it had hurt me more than it had hurt him.  I went behind the barn and spent the rest of the day expressing the emotions which I had suppressed doing my father’s training session – I cried for hours.  Now before you think my father cruel, let me tell you that I remember this lesson to this day.  In fact, while I was not privileged to serve in the military, I am certain that if I had been told by a drill-sergeant to run with a loaded rifle, I would have simply thrown up on the spot.

As Father’s Day approaches, I am thankful for the men who have modeled fathering for me.  These now humorous episodes remind me that my Grandfather and Father were loving men, committed to their family.  I am a better man for their example.  Oh, yes, I do own a shotgun, but I don’t remember where it is!