My Dad and Big Boy's Toys

Disclaimer: If the pictures offend you, the "Back" button will take you someplace else.

My father, before he was my father, was a Staff Sargent with the 87th Infantry Division during WWII. He walked, rode trucks, and otherwise crossed a good portion of Europe (Cherbourg, France to Czechoslovakia, via Belgium, Luxembourg, and Germany) from the Fall of 1944 through V-E Day in 1945. Along the way, he participated in the relief of the Bulge, and helped to liberate the Buchenwald concentration camp. Before they sent him to Europe, he qualified Expert with most of the small arms in the U.S. inventory.

Suffice it to say, he knew which end of a firearm was the loud one, and his philosophy was that it was better to have one and not need it, than to need one and not have it. He did his best to impart this information and philosophy to me. He tried to teach me to be safe with weapons, to think of them, both edged and firearms, as tools, how to properly handle and care for them, and to enjoy trying to become proficient with them. I think it worked.

He's been gone for almost 18 years, and there's not a day that passes that I don't miss him. But, finding myself halfway down the long and winding road, I can look forward to seeing my sons pass this knowledge to their children, and look back with appreciation to the father that taught me.

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A couple of weeks ago, Bobby, Slade, and I descended on The Firing Lane in Athens (very much worth a visit if you're into guns) for an evening of good, loud, dirty fun. My .45s, .22, and Slade's .45 spent the best part of 45 minutes shredding paper at the indoor range. Between the three of us, we burned about 500 rounds of .45 ACP, 150 of .45 Colt, and 150 of .22. We reduced 6 targets to confetti, completely covered the floor with spent brass, undoubtedly did some permanent damage to our hearing, and absolutely enjoyed the heck out of the whole evening.

I enjoyed it so much, that I convinced my buddy Teddy to accompany me the following week for another 30 min session. I'm going back this week, too. It's fun, and I'm not nearly as good as I should be with the .45 auto. Practice, practice, practice. If I expect to live up to my father's example, I'll need to make this a regular event.

Besides, it gives me an excuse to share what I've learned with friends, sons, and sons-in-law and to have a wonderful time doing it.

There's not much more a man could want from a hobby, or a family.