It’s not a criticism, it’s an observation.
A walk in the woods with Dad = the best present

Mike Cox

It stands alone in the back of the closet; dusty, neglected, nearly forgotten. I remove it on occasion just to brush the residue from the barrel. When I take the gun in my hands, time retreats nearly four decades.

I’m 15 and standing in a Western Auto store with my father. He tells me to pick the one I want. I choose a replica of his; a 16 gauge Remington Wingmaster pump shotgun, perfect for an aging quail hunter or a teenager just beginning to learn.

Guns aren’t popular gifts these days. They are dangerous, and firearm proponents have been portrayed as maniacal, drunken killers, blasting away at anything that moves; extinct species, pets, livestock, humans. I’m sure there are hunters like that, but I’ve never met any.

I received the shotgun as a Christmas present after several years of “doing with less” so my younger siblings could have an acceptable Christmas. He told me he was tired of having to ask me to understand.

I can’t really say why we were in the Western Auto that day. Maybe Dad was rewarding me for my unselfishness. Maybe he was tired of my using his. Maybe he knew it would be important to me. Who knows? Fathers and sons are seldom on the same wavelength.

I remember doing things for my sons I thought were memorable at the time. The boys never mention them. When they recall the important events in their lives, I’m usually surprised. The whole father–son thing can be a crapshoot. It is important to be there, and it’s critical to show them you love them. Other than that, it’s mostly a mystery.

I was thrilled to have my own firearm. I practiced on bottles, cans, even cardboard boxes. I remembered every safety lesson my dad had drilled into my head from the age of five when he would let me tag along on his bird hunts my cap pistols strapped to my Roebucks.

After a few years, I lost interest in bird hunting and used the shotgun less and less. For a time, I hunted deer with my friends and bought a Winchester lever action rifle. I don’t remember what happened to it.

In time, going to football games replaced hunting as my favorite weekend pastime. Then Dad and I started going into the woods together once again. You couldn’t call what we did hunting. I don’t remember firing a single shot on any of our walks. We just had the guns as props. Mostly we walked, talked, and grew closer and closer together. We continued the practice until I moved to Tennessee.

I never knew where my father found the money to buy the shotgun. One hundred sixty eight dollars was a lot of money in 1965. I do know its value to me now is incalculable. I haven’t fired it in a quarter century but wouldn’t trade it for anything on Earth, except maybe to walk through the woods with it on my shoulder and him by my side one more time.

MWC423@bellsouth.net