01/04/13, 09:06 PM
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Join Date: Jan 2004
Location: Louisiana
Posts: 3,604
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The Pump
It sits propped up in the corner.
Ready, at a moment's notice to do its job. The same job it has probably done a hundred times before. Time tested, hunt proven. Just blued steel, walnut and memories.
Reminds me of a junkyard dog...Rough around the edges, a bit fierce, wholly competent. She was made by American craftsman in New York over sixty years ago. You can still see a bit of figure in her walnut, under the darkening and the grime. The wood feels like it's been sanded slick, and it has, by years and years of handling. The receiver is worn white, especially at the carrying point, midway on the mag. The barrel is thinner than today's production, shifting the weight backwards between the hands.
The barrel looks a bit off, though. Then you realize there's no front site...that's because the old rifle was shot so much, the end of the barrel wore out and it was cut back to the point it still had lands and grooves and accuracy.
That's not the only mark that bears explanation. You see where the front slide support has been silver-soldered back together, a victim of one two many harsh ATV rides, miles back in the swamps.
But who cares about blemishes? They add character and they don't affect function.
And the old girl functions well. A slide action as slick as snot on a brass doorknob. The ability to shoot quarters at a hundred yards, better than a lot of new, high-dollar bolt actions.
My wife has owned her for twenty years. It's one of the few actions she can shoot well. Due to her arthritis, she can't handle a bolt fast enough and automatics weight too much in the forend. To her, the old Remington pump has become a treasured tool.
I wish the old pump could talk. I wonder who all has owned her, how many deer she has killed, how many campfires she has seen. I wonder if she enjoys watching the sun come up from the deerstand on a crisp, cold winter morning as much as my wife does.
Kinda dumb to romanticize a weapon. After all, she's made of the the same material we make shovels out of. Then again, not many young men or women get excited about finding a new shovel under the Christmas tree.
So she sits propped up in the corner, waiting. Waiting until 4AM tomorrow morning, when she is loaded up and asked to do her job again.
One day, if the good Lord is kind and fate prevails, a little boy or girl will ask why their mother keeps that old rifle in the cabinet. I hope she shows them their grandma's gun and remembers a story or two about it.
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