45 Caliber

Early in this blog I have some “don’t tell mom” stories where I engaged my kids in some kind of escapade that my wife (Jean) either wouldn’t approve of in advance, or because of the resulting near catastrophe, definitely wouldn’t approve of after the fact. Men are built with a self-preservation instinct. Mom can’t kill me for nearly killing our kids if she doesn’t know that I nearly killed our kids. I learned this truism from my father.

My dad used to tell a story about how he and Uncle Do (Nelson) took my two older brothers, Al and Bill, and my cousin Ron, out in the woods to learn how to shoot. The story Dad told occurred in the woods near Lake Como, Wisconsin. My family used to vacation there during the summers. Actually, my grandparents Ray and Fern rented the lake house for a month, and we were invited for one week plus the weekends. Can I diverge from the real story, or what?

Dad and Uncle Do had been soldiers in WW II. Somehow my dad came home from the war still in possession of the 45 caliber semi-automatic side arm he’d been issued by the Army. I doubt that this was due to any shenanigans. A little research on the internet indicates that thousands of soldiers brought their side arms home. It was a different time.

Dad said that they had included all of the relevant safety issues as a part of their instruction before handing the gun to Ron. When they were done with their instructions they carefully handed the gun to Ron, and pointed out the direction he was to shoot. Ron took aim and carefully pulled the trigger.

The “oops” portion of the story was Dad’s favorite part. He and Uncle Do had covered everything in their safety instructions except what to do with the gun after it was fired. After absorbing the kick of the gun Ron dropped his gun hand to his side with the muzzle pointed toward his foot. Dad and Uncle Do’s hearts stopped. The semi-automatic had done what it was meant to do. It had ejected the used brass case, chambered a fresh round, cocked the hammer, and was ready to fire again. If Ron gently touched the trigger he would blow his leg or foot off.

Without alarming the three boys my Dad and Uncle Do gently and carefully retrieved the gun from Ron. Ron’s leg remained intact and they sighed with relief. They made the gun safe and immediately announced the gun lesson was over. Al and Bill never got a chance to fire the gun. All three boys had to promise not to tell their moms about the outing with the gun. Dad and Uncle Do vowed not to repeat the lesson until the boys were older.

Years later when Dad told this story he said that he and Uncle Do had been scared to death for Ron’s safety AND for what their wives would do to them if Ron had shot his foot off.

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The state legislature passes laws indicating how and when things should be done, but my dad came from a different day and age. Dad was born in 1916. He was an independent thinker and did not feel constrained by every dictate of a distant group of politicians. He was DAD, spelled with capital letters, and he would decide what his young sons should be taught, and when they should learn it.

I was in my mid-teens when Dad decided it was time that I learned how to shoot the 45. My memory is foggy about how it came to pass. He may have told me in advance where we were going that day and what we were going to do. Those details have been lost. I do remember driving about 10 miles to Palisades – Kepler State Park and parking the car near the dam. We headed east on the trails into the woods.

When we got to the furthest reaches of the park Dad chose a safe site for the lesson and pulled the gun out of his coat pocket. After pointing out various features and describing their function he retold Ron’s story to point out the danger of the enterprise. I was proud to be trusted in such a dangerous undertaking at such a young age, but I was justifiably cautious. Since shooting a gun seemed like an adult activity I thought I should show some responsibility and asked Dad about the legality. “Is this legal? Do we need a permit or license or something? Aren’t hunting and firearms usually banned in state parks?”

Dad said he wasn’t sure whether or not it was legal, but we weren’t doing anyone any harm, and I wasn’t of legal age anyway. If anyone was going to get into trouble it would be him. He said I should let him worry about legalities and that I should instead worry about the gun.

I did as I was told. I held the 45 with two hands, sighted along the barrel, and slowly squeezed the trigger. The gun fired with a roar and had a monstrous kick. It sounded like a cannon had fired, literally. We were down in the bottom of the Cedar River valley with cliffs on both sides of the river. The blast from the gun echoed repeatedly against the cliffs on both sides of the valley. It was clear that the sound would be heard for miles up and down the river. There was no way we could continue without drawing attention. One shot was all I got.

Dad had a shocked look on his face. It was likely that we would soon have more attention than he wanted. He took the gun, made it safe, put it in his pocket, and we started walking quickly for the car. We were almost to the car when a park ranger came rushing down the trail. Under his breath Dad said, “Let me do the talking”. The ranger asked Dad, “Did you hear gunfire?” Pointing back down the trail Dad said, “Yeah, down that way. That’s why we are headed this way.” and Dad then pointed toward the car.

I love lawyers with quick wits. What Dad had said was technically true. The gunfire had come from down that way, and that was the reason we were headed the other way. Fortunately, the ranger didn’t ask Dad if we were the source of the gunfire. I don’t know if the ranger suspected us or not. He may have decided that he did not want to confront what might be an armed man; or he may have decided that if we were the perpetrators and we were leaving, then that was just as well. Whatever his reasoning was, the ranger rushed down the trail on his mission, and Dad and I rushed the opposite direction toward the car and home.

We hopped in the car and headed for home without being stopped again. Dad drove the speed limit leaving the park, which is something Dad never did. If you’ve been reading this blog regularly you already know what happened next.

Dad turned to me and said, “Don’t’ tell Mom.”