Irish At The Shooting Range

NOT to be construed that guns & alky are a good combo. I
just happen to like Guinness ... But not while I'm shooting.

Irish At The Shooting Range


Another wonderful day at the range when two Irishmen walk in. NO ... This is not an Irish joke. Read on ...

We went over the rudiments of gun safety, & the range rules, setting them up with a .38 & ammo. After a few minutes with them on the firing line I came back in the shop. The fellow I worked with HAD to make a comment:

"You rented a gun to a couple of Irishmen? Are ... you ... crazy?" Grin on his face.

"HEY! ... I'm Irish!"

"My point exactly."

"Hnnnngh!"

Their session over, the two gentlemen come off the range & we get to talking about Ireland & other subjects. Somehow the subject of gun control came up. Needless to say, they had a rather "European" outlook on that sort of thing. Also needless to say, we countered with our rather "American" viewpoint on such things.

It was a friendly argument, no voices raised but ... when one of them said "There are too many guns in America", I couldn't resist.

"Is this a great country or WHAT!?" Grin on my face.

They responded by giving me that "WHAT" look.

After a few more sentences between us, they left. I thought that was the last we'd see of them.

A couple weeks later, they came back for another go on the range. They stayed even longer after that & we picked up our conversation from where we left off. No opportunities for snappy rejoinders (Darn!) but they did go away a little more pro-gun than before.

We're all friends here.


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Tacklebox Gun

Tacklebox Gun

Based on an incident that actually happened to me way back when.

by

Jay Agan


The rod’s end snapped, letting fly a long, arcing cast toward a tall,mossy stump poking above the water. Sure of a huge bass lurking in the weed choked roots, Bill Strickland hoped to winkle it out. A shiny brass spoon in the waning ochre light of pre-dusk made for a good bet in catching the fish’s interest.

Stooging through nearby shallows, dorsals above the surface, a pair of orange-brown carp foraged lazily. The angler paid scant attention to the "trash fish" as he reeled the line slowly in. Bass and panfish were his forte. A medium sized smallmouth, two crappie, and a large pumpkinseed lay slipped on a stringer. Four in a half hour was more than promising. When the sun started its set, the fish would really get to biting.

Bill straightened and stretched his five foot nine frame, relieving tension in the middle-aged limbs and back. Scanning his mid-west idyll, he noticed the coloration of the trees on the shore, opposite. The fast change, started in late August, meant a short fall and early winter, to his way of thinking.

Reflections on the waters at the far bank gave the illusion of the forest growing down into the depths of Howland Reservior. Rustling breezes, through field and wood, conveyed the impression of "both" forests being a single breathing entity.

Sweeping a dark lock from his face, the man pondered. Though lean times were ahead in this late seventies recession, he was much at peace. Unemployment, never easy to take anywhere, was always doubly worse in Millard County. In an area of scarce jobs, periods of inactivity could be months long. He had seen it coming weeks before the plant layoffs and resolved not to pass the time vegetating.

He’d make real use of his time and planned accordingly. Outdoor recreation was a big part in the order of the day. Any friends not receptive to hunting, fishing, and just plain walking in the woods, were free to go to seed at the various town watering holes or decay in front of the idiot box.

A grimace cut the thin face on a remembered layoff, years past. Months of "going to hell with himself" wasn’t on the new agenda. An unpaid vacation suited him better. Non-existant escape through the tube or alcohol was no substitute for an extended holiday.

He gave silent thanks in avoiding a "fate worse than ‘life’."

A throaty, staccato rumble to the left turned his attention outward. No sooner had he pinpointed the area of the source, a twenty-five yard distant tangle of scrub and trees, the bike and rider trundled out.

As "man" and bike lumbered past, heading for the chuck-holed road leading from the lake’s edge, Strickland made some quick observations.

The black, stripped down, FL-model Harley was no off road machine. Faded leathers (no "colors"), worn jeans, and engineer boots weren’t the usual attire of a dirt biker, either. The heavy individual displayed a less than pleasant look on a brutish, neanderthal mug: a dark, greasy, smear of unkempt fur and beard. The nose had to have been broken at least once.

Stopping on a small rise overlooking the reservoir, the rider stole a quick glance back before kicking in gear and taking off up the road.

The angler filed the "incident" as a minor distraction from his "blue heaven." No harm done. Casting the spoon, he attemped to shove the encounter from his thoughts.

Something nagged: "Almost a half hour fishing here, the biker was in that thicket the whole time. What was he..."

Though a paragon of mid-west, rural, America, Millard County had more than it’s "fair share" of crime. The "boonies" weren’t known easy availability of peace officers.

Several years back, a passing acquaintance was murdered while fishing this very same body of water. Investigators found the body in sad shape and no suspects, concluding he ran afoul of a passing tramp. Stories of beaten and robbed fishermen, occult activity, and other goings-on flashed through his mind.

A now familiar rumble of a V-twin engine edged back into listening range.

Rider and bike topped the rise going into a slow, easy, descent.

From the corner of his eye, Bill saw he was getting more than a quick once-over as before. The mutant was sizing him up. An intense feral look bespoke of contempt and hostility under the low, narrow, forehead.

The angler played dumb, feigning ignorance of what he saw as a quickly deteriorating situation.

For most of his adult life, Strickland usually had steel of some kind handy. On his left hip, obscured by the light jacket tied around his waist, hung the holstered Ruger .22 Standard-Auto in a cross draw. His "tacklebox gun."

Not totally sure of hostile intent at this point, Bill suppressed the urge to draw the pistol. One didn’t pull a gun on someone looking nasty at you from a distance. The biker’s gaze could mean anything, from disgust to malice.

Bill had often thought of how he would handle a dangerous situation and the outcome. He concluded knees would turn rubbery, the shakes would hit full force...maybe run...or not be able to.

Neither running or shaking, he felt calm and ready. Resultant confidence, from range time, reading, self training/study, surfaced, suppressing the fear of moments before. Only a low level apprehension was left to work its feeble subversion. Resolved, he would handle it. Under no illusions, he would use the gun.

Mind organized, he thought clearly. The best way to win a fight is to avoid it. Problem: Keep predator at a distance without escalating situation. Solution ...

The biker, but thirty yards away, Strickland made his move. As if to make a cast to his left, he turned his gun side to the oncoming rider. Feigning an itch in his side, Bill reached down to scratch, swept the jacket aside, revealing the pistol.

Pulling up short, the biker’s face ran the spectrum from hostility to amazement, then fear. The expressionless face of the angler revealed nothing while scanning the rider in his peripheral vision.

It was the anthropoid’s turn to be sized up, and the creature more than knew it. Even the dumbest of scooter-trash could see this was no easy mark.

Wheels turned smartly about, a then sober faced biker tooled conservatively up and over the rise with many a look back.

Strickland heaved a welcome sigh of relief. He would always wonder as to how nasty a situation had been averted.

He eyed the thicket his would-be antagonist originated from. A look-see was in order. Gun out, he crept slowly to the side of the tangle and peered in.

Nothing. Almost. He bent down, reaching for a shiny object in a muddy rut left by the bikes' wheels. He backed out, plastic bag in hand. The few green stems and seeds contained testified to the thorough use of the bag’s former contents. Another glance in revealed nothing else.

The possibility of a return performance prompted Bill to pack and leave for the car a quarter mile distant. Another fishing spot could always be had another day ...
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Cleaned and oiled, the Ruger auto lay in the night stand drawer, slick sheen reflecting the light. Bill’s appreciation of such mass-produced "art" went up more than a few points that day.

As earlier in the day, he felt at peace. He faced a snake in Eden, coming out the better for it. Any future serpents ... He would be ready.


Go to Jays' Tee Vee blog main page here.

Boyfriends' Third Degree

Low cost life insurance. Great for home defense & other social situations.
Hey. Sometimes an ax handle just won't do.

                                                Boyfriends' Third Degree

                                                                  by

                                                                      Jay Agan

      Entrepreneur, military man, cold warrior, professional, movie buff. Insurance adjuster by profession (Shooting instructor/range officer on the weekend.) he set me straight on an urban legend. He was also a family man.

      Most fathers of girls have gone through the "man to man" with any new boyfriends the kids' brought home to meet the folks. Some have done the third degree in the living room or kitchen. Others (As he has.) conducted it in the basement/garage workshop.

      His was a little different. During the "procedure" he would show off only one of his "power tools".

      The Rossi "coach gun" (Of the type known as the "Lupera" or "Wolf Killer".) is an intimidating thing. Side by side 20" double barrel 12 guage with external hammers. While talking "with" the young suiter, he'd take it out & clean it ..... wether it needed it or not. With the heady scent of Hoppes #9 permeating the air, the conversation was paced by the in & out of the cleaning rod & would go something like this:

      "So ..... (swish, swish) ..... What's your name ..... (swish, swish)?

      "-------- -------"

      "Where'd you meet my daughter ..... (swish, swish) .....?

      "------- ------- ------- ...... (sweat, sweat)."

      "Where ..... (swish, swish) ..... are you taking her tonight ..... (swish, swish) .....?

      "------ ----- ----- (shiver, whine) ..... "

      "Who ..... (swish, swish) ..... are your parents ..... ?

      "----- ----- ----- ----- (shake, quake) ....."

      "What ..... (swish, swish) ..... do they do for a living .....?"

      "----- ----- ----- ----- ----- (snivel, whimper) -----"

      "You ..... (swish, swish) ..... working?"

      And so it went until .....

      "Have her ..... (Looking through the barrels.) ..... home by eleven."

      As they'd leave, he'd tell his little girl, "be good or be careful."

      Meaning, YOU'D BETTER BE GOOD!

      I understand some Italian fathers have a variation that goes something likes this:

      "I donna know wotta is a' you doin', but Iva  pretty good a' idea. Youse cuts it out! Capiche?"

      "Oh daddy!"

      The latest this fellows' daughter ever got home was 10:45.

      "Why are you driving so fast!? You almost ran a light!"

      "If I don't get you home in time, your dad's gonna SHOOT me!"

Article copyright © 11-29-2011 Jay Agan

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DISCLAIMER: All images used on this blog are strictly copyrights of their owners. I do not claim credit/ownership for any images used here in my blog unless stated otherwise. If I have offended anyone by posting any images on my blog, please contact me via email and I will remove specified image(s) ASAP.

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Router!

     

Credit: Colt Industries

     
      During a slow day at the gun store/range I worked at in the 90s, a co-worker related this little story. It happened when he was an insurance adjuster in Dayton. On the weekends, he would shoot at a public range in the country.

      First, a sidenote: As anyone who has owned one will attest, the Colt 1911 A1 .45 auto is one great weapon. I've owned a few over the years myself. It does have a quirk which though can be present with many semi-autos, is a bit more pronounced  with the Colt. Slide bite.

      If you're holding it two handed with the thumb of your "support" hand over the back of the shooting hand behind the slide, the slide could come back in recoil & cut you (One fellow said it could take your thumb off. No, it only FEELS like it took your thumb off.) Keep your "other thumb" out of the way. I've seen people need stitches.

      While shooting at the Dayton area public range, my friend noticed a fellow next to him on the line getting "bitten" & it didn't look good. As the guy was leaving for treatment, it was suggested the fellow state it was an accident with a router when questioned. What the gun hating buzz kills didn't need was another "gun accident" statistic to play with.

      A couple weeks later, my friend saw the same guy at the range with a red scar across his left thumb.

      "Say!" He exclaimed smiling. "How'd you get such a nasty looking scar?"

       The guy immediately grins.

      "Router!"

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DISCLAIMER: All images used on this blog are strictly copyrights of their owners. I do not claim credit/ownership for any images used here in my blog unless stated otherwise. If I have offended anyone by posting any images on my blog, please contact me via email and I will remove specified image(s) ASAP.

A Buster Douglas Anecdote

1847 Colt-Walker cap & ball black powder revolver. If
you miss, it makes a great club!

                                              A Buster Douglas Anecdote

                                                                 by

                                                                    Jay Agan

      He was manager of the gun store/pistol range I worked at back in the 90s. Methodical, with that Germanic/Lutheran stoicism, & a heightened business sense. Wasn't even 25 but mature beyond his years.

      He did have his quirks. Very much into the "country" thing. Drove a pickup (Had an 8 track player. Came with the truck.), wore a "duster" & "cowboy" hat. Loved country music (He would get on request lines for songs at least two times older than he was. Made more than one DJ look foolish for not having the desired song.).

      When he got into something, he never went half way. At the time of this article, he was deeply commited to black powder shooting. So much so, it was what he carried at the shop: two large replica 1847 Walker Colt cap & ball pistols.(Every three months or so in this country, some idiot tries to hold up a gun store, thus we carried.)
    
      It was rather funny looking. He weighed all of about 120 lbs & had no hips to speak of. Held that gunbelt up by sheer force of will. I once turned from the counter, inadvertantly bumped him & he went flying (I'm not a big guy. I must have been about 175 at the time. Fat old man.). I felt terrible. After about five minutes of apologies he told me to shut up. (What a guy!)

      He followed the usual procedure of insuring that a cap & ball revolver would perform properly when needed: Shoot it once a day & clean it. About a couple hours before closing he'd go on the range, fire one off, go to the back room to clean/reload, & repeat with the other one. Quite impressive seeing those hog legs touch off. A loud, low, PHOOM! with accompanying fireball & sparks. A sight to see I'm tellin' ya.

      One late summer afternoon, two BIG guys & a couple of young men walk in. The first said he had never been to this range before & could I explain procedure. After going over the range/safty rules they signed in for two booths & entered the range. Right after, a customer walked up to the counter.

      "Do you know who that is!?"

      "Uh, no."

      "That's Buster Douglas!"

      I look at the signed Range Use Agreement. Turns out he, his sparring partner & their sons were having some down time.

      Meaning no disrespect to Mr. Douglas, but I was never much into sports of any kind & quit being enthralled by "celebrity" long before. I & the other fellow behind the counter explained that our attitude was that Mr. Douglas (Or anyone of note.) put his pants on one leg at a time like everyone else & probably appreciates it when no one is fawning all over him. We've had "leading lights" come through our doors before. I will say anyone who can pull off a win against Mike Tyson deserves some respect.

      After twenty minutes, it was "about that time" to "clean the guns" & off goes the manager to the range (Oh boy! It's nuke time!). He goes to booth one so as not to disturb anybody (Mr. Douglas & Co. were on 9 & 10). Six "Phoom! n' flashes" later, he's in the back room cleaning merrily away.

      A few minutes later, the Douglas party comes out to settle up. As they're about to leave, Mr. Douglas asks my fellow counter guy about the pyrotechnic display from a few minutes before. Both he & the owner give a short explanation about black powder firearms.

      For several days after, we kidded the manager for putting "the fear of God" into the World Heavyweight Champion. He was not amused. As for Mr. Douglas, I doubt he scares so easily. He seemed a little impressed though.
                                               
                                            Article copyright © 2-13-2011 Jay Agan

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DISCLAIMER: All images used on this blog are strictly copyrights of their owners. I do not claim credit/ownership for any images used here in my blog unless stated otherwise. If I have offended anyone by posting any images on my blog, please contact me via email and I will remove specified image(s) ASAP.

This article (only) may be copied with permission. Please include proper credit & backlink.