Another boyhood story.  Let me know if you're tired of them and I'll quit posting them.

My First Gun

I was 13 years old when I got my first gun.

There was a small sporting goods shop on Polk Street near California.  I'd stopped by there several times after school to look at the Winchester Single Shot .22 behind the counter.  It cost fifteen dollars.  I wanted that gun.

Earlier that summer, when Lee and I were on one of our trips to Salinas,  Uncle Bob let me fire his shotgun.  My friend Rich had his own .22 rifle.  I wanted one too.

It was near Christmas.  I asked Mom to get me that rifle for Christmas, but she refused, saying I wasn't old enough yet, and besides, what would I do with a gun in the city?

Christmas was going to be spent at our house this year.  Uncle Bob and Aunty Mit would be there, and the day after Christmas they were going to take Lee and I to Salinas with them.  Mom and Dad would go down on the bus New Years Eve, and we would return to San Francisco with them the day before school started.

I counted up the money I got for Christmas, twelve dollars.  I had two dollars saved and my allowance was a dollar a week.  If I got my allowance a few days early I would have enough to buy my gun.

The day after Christmas I pleaded with my Dad to let me buy the gun so I could take it to Salinas with me.  Mom objected, but Dad and Uncle Bob thought it would be alright.  

Dad took me to the sporting goods store right after it opened.  I bought the gun, and Dad sprung for a cleaning kit and a box of ammunition.  The store clerk wrapped the gun in brown paper, but you could still tell what it was.  Walking next to my Dad, I proudly carried that gun down Polk Street and back home.

An hour later, Lee and I were in the back of Uncle Bob's Pontiac heading down the Bayshore Freeway toward Salinas.  That very day I would be hunting with my own gun.

After lunch I unwrapped the gun and held it.  I turned it over and over in my hands.  I worked the bolt back and forth.  I held it up to my shoulder, pointed it out the window, and looked through the sights.

Then Uncle Bob took Lee and I outside and gave us our second lesson in gun safety.  We gotten our first when he let us fire his shotgun the previous summer.  He told me never to have it loaded unless I was actually going to shoot.  I was never to point it at anyone, even when it was unloaded.  He showed me where the safety was, and how to use it.  And under no circumstances was I to take the gun outside alone.

Then he put some cans on the fence posts behind the house and we got to business.  He showed us how to put the bullet in the chamber, close the bolt, pull back the firing pin knob, and turn the safety lever.

Then he brought the rifle up to his shoulder, turned the safety back down with his thumb, and fired.  The first can flew off the fence post.
By the end of the afternoon Lee and I had fired a half box of ammunition at a dozen cans, hitting about half of them.

After we finished shooting, Uncle Bob got out the cleaning kit and showed us how to take the gun apart and clean it.  He cleaned it the first time, and then I repeated the process.

I took the bolt out of the receiver and wiped it down with an oily rag.  I put a patch through the slot at the end of the cleaning rod, dipped it into a small bottle of Hoppes Number 9, and swabbed the barrel several times.  The smell of the solvent was like perfume.  I ran another patch with a dab of oil on it through the barrel and replaced the bolt.  Uncle Bob told me to always leave the bolt open when storing the rifle.

Twice that week Uncle Bob took us out with the gun.  The first time we shot cans off the fence post again.  The next time he carried his shot gun and I carried my .22 as we walked the tree line looking for quail.  We didn't see any, but I was hunting with my own gun.  When we got back, Lee and I, under Uncle Bob's supervision,  shot the remaining rounds of ammunition in the box at tin cans.

About 2:00 o'clock in the afternoon on New Years Eve, I got in the Pontiac with Uncle Bob and we drove down the road to Highway 101 at Prunedale.  We waited there until the Greyhound bus from San Francisco came down the highway, stopped, and let Mom and Dad off.

I got in the back seat of the Pontiac with Mom, and Dad got in the front with Uncle Bob.

I immediately started talking about our adventures with my new gun, how good a shot I was, how I learned to keep my gun clean, and how I went hunting with Uncle Bob.  I could see it wasn't something Mom wanted to talk about, but Dad was listening.

When we got to the house, I got out of the car and told Dad I wish I had some bullets left so I could show him how well I could shoot.  But Lee and I had fired the last rounds at some tin cans.
Dad reached into his pocket and pulled out another box of ammunition.  He said we'd go out and shoot as soon as he rested up and changed his clothes.

I was so proud.  I had my own gun, and I knew how to use it and take care of it.  It would be another year and a half before I was allowed to take my rifle out alone.  By then I would have walked many miles along the tree line with Uncle Bob.  I would have demonstrated responsibility in caring for and handling a firearm.  And I would have earned the trust of both my mentors, Dad and Uncle Bob.

Noel

WoW!  What a parallel story!  I was also 13 years old and 2 of my friends bought brand new .22 rifles.  There was an accountant/gunsmith who open a small office about 3 blocks from where I lived.  Mom and I went there and I bout a used Winchester single shot .22 caliber rifle.  Never did shot anything moving except for a gopher at the range-master's request.  We always went out to the police pistol and rifle range to shoot at targets.

My rifle is still in my closet in my bedroom.   Still have about 100 rounds I bought back then.  Wonder if they are still good??

Just took a quick snapshot of it!

 

Lovely story!

Being a young boy in Sweden in the 80s and having a father that was an active hunter was the only way for me to try anything more powerful than an air rifle. I've shot thousands of rounds with that air rifle and when autumn arrived, I used to follow dad to the range to zero in the rifles he would use in the coming hunt. At that time I got to shoot the .22 as well. I will never forget the time when I as a young lad at no more than ten years was at the range with my dad and an uncle (on the mothers side). My dad told him I was a pretty decent shot and they were kind of back-and-forth on the subject. My dad put a box of match sticks on a stub maybe 20 meters away and told the uncle I would hit the thinnest part. The uncle did not believe this. However on the first shot I made the box bounce away as I hit it. The Uncle was kind of gobsmacked (maybe dad as well). I will never forget that. 

On a second note. Owning a gun is sadly not so easy to do legally in this country. As my father gets older I would need to jump through insane amounts of hoops to inherit his guns. At the same time the usual suspects in the suburbs use their smuggled military hardware to kill themselves and others with no action from the authorities. Including hand grenades. We live in a clown world. There is absolutely no doubt about that. 

Charlie, your ammunition should last 100 years if stored properly in a cool, dry location.  Check the lead bullets.  If they don't have a white, chalky look they are OK.  They can still be used but the grease has dried out and will not be as accurate.

Your Winchester is exactly the same as mine was.  I recognize the safety lever just in front of the firing pin pull back knob.  My uncle taught me never to pull back the firing pin knob until I was ready to shoot and to always engage the safety lever as soon as the firing pin knob was pulled back.  The safety didn't come off until you had the rifle up to your shoulder and were ready to shoot.  And I see you have it stored with the bolt pulled back.  Good for you.

I must have fire 1,000 rounds or more out of my Winchester until I got a Mossberg semi-automatic with a scope on it.  I was really dangerous to whatever wildlife or bird moved into my view. 

Those two rifles served me for my stint in the Marine Corps.  I never failed to fire expert on the range.  Once I had my sights adjusted I could put bullets into the bullseye from the prone position on the  500 yard line all day long.

It was a sad day when they got rid of the old M1-Garand.  Except perhaps for Springfield 03 it was the most accurate infantry rifle made.  Mine stayed with me through my four years in the Corps.  It was made by International Harvester and I still remember my rifle number (frequently asked during rifle inspections),  19596432.  And you NEVER! called it a gun.

Noel 

We have the same problem with guns in urban settings here Richard.  I could expound on that but the moderators would shut this thread down.

Noel

5 minutes ago, birdguy said:

We have the same problem with guns in urban settings here Richard.  I could expound on that but the moderators would shut this thread down.

Noel

 

.... which is kind of insane in and on itself... 

Edited August 13, 20214 yr by Swe_Richard

41 minutes ago, birdguy said:

And you NEVER! called it a gun.

This is my rifle.

This is my gun. 

One is for shooting, the other for fun!

LOL, called a rifle a gun when I was about 8. Dad was Army MSGT. I only did it once. Learned the rhyme, I did.

 Sue