Post by momatt on Dec 21, 2018 12:48:07 GMT -5
Reminiscing this morning.
I think I must have been about 10 years old that Christmas and I was very jealous. You see under the tree that year was a long skinny and heavy package, and the tag had my brother Drew’s name on it. I knew that he had asked for a shotgun that year, and Dad had not immediately dismissed the idea. Back in October, when I had first become aware of this possibility, I was supportive of the idea. I guess it meant someday maybe I too would be in a position to be given such a gift. Yes, this was a fine idea indeed I had decided. But as the days slipped by and Christmas approached I had changed my mind. Older brother was insufferable, already possessing a fancy pellet rifle, having sold his old pump up BB-gun to me for the princely sum of $10. Even worse, he had received a Remington Targetmaster .22 rifle on his previous birthday. Apparently, it was an accurate and rare treasure, and he like to remind me of this often as he ran his hands over its fancy red wood stock when we were supposed to be cleaning our shared room. And now, he is getting a shotgun I asked myself? This is too much too bear. Mom and Dad didn’t have much money in those days, and I assumed that he would be gifted a single shot Harrington and Richardson from Angelo’s Sporting goods. I knew the price tag well, they were $65 and I’d often ride my bike there to look at them on Saturdays during trapping season. Angelo’s parking lot was where the fur buyer would come on Saturday mornings. If I had caught anything that week, I’d put it in the paper bag laced through the handlebars of my bike and peddle there. Rough men stood in a circle spitting and smoking and watched what the buyer offered for each other’s fur. These guys didn’t just have muskrats, they had coon, beaver, bobcat, coyote, fox and mink. The “big game” of the trapline that kid’s never caught, though we read about the sets in the school’s library copy of Fur Fish and Game. When it was my turn I’d proudly dump my muskrat onto the asphalt, possibly working in a cuss so as to better fit in. The buyer would rub his fingers up the fur and say $3 without looking up. The men would say, “sum bitch Groenwalds”, give the kid $3.50. Inevitably, the buyer would say “I don’t pay $3.50 for rats.” I’d go inside to warm up and look in the minnow tanks, look longingly at the guns, now only $62 dollars short for the H&R with the impressive looking check for $3 in my pocket (well after cashing it at Belletini’s across town I would be). Come Christmas morning, Drew opened up his shotgun and it was no H&R. In fact, it was a Mossberg pump action 20 Gauge. Worse still, apparently Mr. Cripe over at Ace Hardware had ordered the wrong one, the fancy engraved one, and had let Dad have it for the plain price. After the wrapping paper had been cleaned up and Mom’s Christmas casserole eaten we headed out for a Christmas hunt as was our custom. I had Grandpa’s 410 single shot, which only a week before I’d considered one of mankind’s greatest achievements in design, but now it felt as sleek as a pilgrim’s blunderbuss musket. Even though I made a fine shot on a running rabbit down below Jay’s trailer, it did little to brighten my mood, even when dad sad “nice shot” in a tone normally reserved for addressing other men of whom he approved. Jays was only about 20-acres and it didn’t take long to get all the rabbits out of the brush piles we were going to get, even after slightly expanding Jay’s land by trespassing into Moret’s sand pit and ever so slightly encroaching onto Forscythe Woods forest preserve. There was a final strip of grass brother walked out before we left, and as if this day could get no worse, the only cock pheasant in Will County Illinois suddenly exploded from under my brother’s feet and it was soon somersaulting towards the earth caught in the tight pattern of 6s from that brand new gun.
I think I must have been about 10 years old that Christmas and I was very jealous. You see under the tree that year was a long skinny and heavy package, and the tag had my brother Drew’s name on it. I knew that he had asked for a shotgun that year, and Dad had not immediately dismissed the idea. Back in October, when I had first become aware of this possibility, I was supportive of the idea. I guess it meant someday maybe I too would be in a position to be given such a gift. Yes, this was a fine idea indeed I had decided. But as the days slipped by and Christmas approached I had changed my mind. Older brother was insufferable, already possessing a fancy pellet rifle, having sold his old pump up BB-gun to me for the princely sum of $10. Even worse, he had received a Remington Targetmaster .22 rifle on his previous birthday. Apparently, it was an accurate and rare treasure, and he like to remind me of this often as he ran his hands over its fancy red wood stock when we were supposed to be cleaning our shared room. And now, he is getting a shotgun I asked myself? This is too much too bear. Mom and Dad didn’t have much money in those days, and I assumed that he would be gifted a single shot Harrington and Richardson from Angelo’s Sporting goods. I knew the price tag well, they were $65 and I’d often ride my bike there to look at them on Saturdays during trapping season. Angelo’s parking lot was where the fur buyer would come on Saturday mornings. If I had caught anything that week, I’d put it in the paper bag laced through the handlebars of my bike and peddle there. Rough men stood in a circle spitting and smoking and watched what the buyer offered for each other’s fur. These guys didn’t just have muskrats, they had coon, beaver, bobcat, coyote, fox and mink. The “big game” of the trapline that kid’s never caught, though we read about the sets in the school’s library copy of Fur Fish and Game. When it was my turn I’d proudly dump my muskrat onto the asphalt, possibly working in a cuss so as to better fit in. The buyer would rub his fingers up the fur and say $3 without looking up. The men would say, “sum bitch Groenwalds”, give the kid $3.50. Inevitably, the buyer would say “I don’t pay $3.50 for rats.” I’d go inside to warm up and look in the minnow tanks, look longingly at the guns, now only $62 dollars short for the H&R with the impressive looking check for $3 in my pocket (well after cashing it at Belletini’s across town I would be). Come Christmas morning, Drew opened up his shotgun and it was no H&R. In fact, it was a Mossberg pump action 20 Gauge. Worse still, apparently Mr. Cripe over at Ace Hardware had ordered the wrong one, the fancy engraved one, and had let Dad have it for the plain price. After the wrapping paper had been cleaned up and Mom’s Christmas casserole eaten we headed out for a Christmas hunt as was our custom. I had Grandpa’s 410 single shot, which only a week before I’d considered one of mankind’s greatest achievements in design, but now it felt as sleek as a pilgrim’s blunderbuss musket. Even though I made a fine shot on a running rabbit down below Jay’s trailer, it did little to brighten my mood, even when dad sad “nice shot” in a tone normally reserved for addressing other men of whom he approved. Jays was only about 20-acres and it didn’t take long to get all the rabbits out of the brush piles we were going to get, even after slightly expanding Jay’s land by trespassing into Moret’s sand pit and ever so slightly encroaching onto Forscythe Woods forest preserve. There was a final strip of grass brother walked out before we left, and as if this day could get no worse, the only cock pheasant in Will County Illinois suddenly exploded from under my brother’s feet and it was soon somersaulting towards the earth caught in the tight pattern of 6s from that brand new gun.