F
Field Ethos
Guest
By Edgar Castillo
“Don’t touch the shotgun” — is what I heard my father say. Though he had spoken in Spanish, his order was clear. It was said in a way that carried weight and was clear for a teenager to understand that he was serious. He spoke calmly, but his tone was filled with authority, and maybe even an underlying warning as not to touch his newly purchased shotgun. He had been saving for a better part of the year. Making layaway payments here and there, until the $1,000 was paid off.
I should have known something was afoot when I offered to carry the cardboard box out of the Olathe Gun Shop. His forbidding “No” signaled what I would endure for the next 30 years…100% hands off! It was the late 1980s and he had just bought his first over-under, a Ruger Red Label 12-gauge. “The Red,” as it came to be known, was replacing his Remington 1100. Barely a moment was wasted when we got home as my father quickly unboxed the shotgun. I stood there watching him as he carefully placed the components together. He cradled the shotgun like it was his first born. For a brief moment I felt replaced.
With smooth precision he connected the highly polished receiver, famously known to be machined from a sold block of stainless steel, with the finished American walnut buttstock to the hammer-forged barrels. The forend clicked in its place to finish out the Red Label’s build. I moved in for a closer look but was careful not to cross any additional unknown boundaries of which I was not yet aware. Dabs of gun oil were rubbed into the wood gently like some sort of baptismal induction. His hands moved over the checkering on the pistol grip and multi-point scallop design on the handguard like a man caresses a woman. The shotgun was an artistic mix of forged alloy and crafted lumber assembled together to do one thing. Kill birds. Appealing to the eye The Red was.
The Ruger Red Label was once the premier, American-made over-under for decades. Produced from 1977 to 2011, then briefly from 2013 to 2016, when it was discontinued because it was becoming too expensive to build. In fact, in 2011, a Red Label cost a bird-hunting man upwards to 2Gs! The shotguns are highly sought after by shooters and collectors alike, maintaining their value and then some to this day. Most of the gauges are known to be heavy, especially the 12, tipping the scales between a whopping 7½ and 8 pounds. It’s a tank to carry. They are well balanced and swing smoothly.
My affair with The Red would become one of admiration, done at a distance. I wasn’t allowed to touch it for any reason. Absolutely no exceptions. The shotgun did double duty in the duck blind as well as across the uplands. Thus, there were many times when we would be crossing fence lines or wading across marshes and I would extend my arm out to grab the shotgun, only for my father to ignore my offer to help. He would cock his head to the side and look at me like the dominant alpha male stares down a lesser, weaker clan member. This would cause me to pull back submissively. When loading the truck for hunting trips, The Red’s gun case was left only for my father to handle. His strict no-touch rule was always in play no matter the situation. One would think that this display of controlling hierarchy would translate into my father being a good shooter. On the contrary. He whiffed on more birds than he hit, blaming it on outside factors. In fact, I outshot my father 10 to one.
No matter where we went, The Red commanded many looks. He gladly and openly offered the shotgun to others to hold and even shoot. Throughout three decades I yearned to carry the shotgun just once and fire it. That time never came. It became second nature for me to avoid any type of purposeful or accidental contact with the Red Label.
On Christmas Eve in 2014, everything changed. We had gathered downstairs at my parent’s house at midnight as is customary in Latin-American cultures to pray, call loved ones back home in Guatemala, and open gifts. My father, the patriarch of the familia, shushed the dozen or so people assembled around. He ordered me to sit in a chair and then disappeared. His footsteps signaling his return. My father was carrying something folded in an old, brown-worn rag with fringed ends. It was the towel he used to wrap Red Label in when he cleaned it.
“Abrelo” – “Open it,” he said in Spanish as he placed it in my lap. Confused, I pulled back the cloth, exposing the Ruger Red Label. Instantly, I could smell the remnants of linseed oil, with a hint of Hoppe’s No. 9. They mixed together, filling the room with a sweet odor. “You want me to clean it?” I asked sheepishly.
“La escopeta es suya ahora. Es su tiempo pa’ ser memorias,” – “The shotgun is yours now. It’s your time to make memories with it.” My father knelt down and assembled the shotgun. Once put together, he opened the action like he had done an untold number of times and presented it to me. With outstretched arms, I grabbed The Red and with a firm snap, closed the shotgun. Immediately, I felt the warmth that wood gives off, offset by the coolness of the metal receiver. I swung the over-under at an imaginary bird, snuffing its life out like the flip of a light switch. I envisioned countless scenarios to come carrying The Red and shooting birds with it. He watched me as fathers do when sons do something for the first time. He moved in close, and we hugged. Unbeknownst to me, his lesson the entire time was for me to learn to appreciate and value such an heirloom. It worked.
Turning my attention back to The Red, I asked, “What are you going to shoot now?” From the gun cabinet he pulled out a fancy, engraved Spanish double. I quickly reached for the over-under, when my father sternly said, “Don’t touch the shotgun.”
Author’s note: I have yet to touch, hold, carry, or shoot the shotgun.
The post Don’t Touch the Shotgun appeared first on Field Ethos.
Continue reading...
“Don’t touch the shotgun” — is what I heard my father say. Though he had spoken in Spanish, his order was clear. It was said in a way that carried weight and was clear for a teenager to understand that he was serious. He spoke calmly, but his tone was filled with authority, and maybe even an underlying warning as not to touch his newly purchased shotgun. He had been saving for a better part of the year. Making layaway payments here and there, until the $1,000 was paid off.
I should have known something was afoot when I offered to carry the cardboard box out of the Olathe Gun Shop. His forbidding “No” signaled what I would endure for the next 30 years…100% hands off! It was the late 1980s and he had just bought his first over-under, a Ruger Red Label 12-gauge. “The Red,” as it came to be known, was replacing his Remington 1100. Barely a moment was wasted when we got home as my father quickly unboxed the shotgun. I stood there watching him as he carefully placed the components together. He cradled the shotgun like it was his first born. For a brief moment I felt replaced.
The Red
With smooth precision he connected the highly polished receiver, famously known to be machined from a sold block of stainless steel, with the finished American walnut buttstock to the hammer-forged barrels. The forend clicked in its place to finish out the Red Label’s build. I moved in for a closer look but was careful not to cross any additional unknown boundaries of which I was not yet aware. Dabs of gun oil were rubbed into the wood gently like some sort of baptismal induction. His hands moved over the checkering on the pistol grip and multi-point scallop design on the handguard like a man caresses a woman. The shotgun was an artistic mix of forged alloy and crafted lumber assembled together to do one thing. Kill birds. Appealing to the eye The Red was.
The Ruger Red Label was once the premier, American-made over-under for decades. Produced from 1977 to 2011, then briefly from 2013 to 2016, when it was discontinued because it was becoming too expensive to build. In fact, in 2011, a Red Label cost a bird-hunting man upwards to 2Gs! The shotguns are highly sought after by shooters and collectors alike, maintaining their value and then some to this day. Most of the gauges are known to be heavy, especially the 12, tipping the scales between a whopping 7½ and 8 pounds. It’s a tank to carry. They are well balanced and swing smoothly.
My affair with The Red would become one of admiration, done at a distance. I wasn’t allowed to touch it for any reason. Absolutely no exceptions. The shotgun did double duty in the duck blind as well as across the uplands. Thus, there were many times when we would be crossing fence lines or wading across marshes and I would extend my arm out to grab the shotgun, only for my father to ignore my offer to help. He would cock his head to the side and look at me like the dominant alpha male stares down a lesser, weaker clan member. This would cause me to pull back submissively. When loading the truck for hunting trips, The Red’s gun case was left only for my father to handle. His strict no-touch rule was always in play no matter the situation. One would think that this display of controlling hierarchy would translate into my father being a good shooter. On the contrary. He whiffed on more birds than he hit, blaming it on outside factors. In fact, I outshot my father 10 to one.
No matter where we went, The Red commanded many looks. He gladly and openly offered the shotgun to others to hold and even shoot. Throughout three decades I yearned to carry the shotgun just once and fire it. That time never came. It became second nature for me to avoid any type of purposeful or accidental contact with the Red Label.
Passing of the Torch
On Christmas Eve in 2014, everything changed. We had gathered downstairs at my parent’s house at midnight as is customary in Latin-American cultures to pray, call loved ones back home in Guatemala, and open gifts. My father, the patriarch of the familia, shushed the dozen or so people assembled around. He ordered me to sit in a chair and then disappeared. His footsteps signaling his return. My father was carrying something folded in an old, brown-worn rag with fringed ends. It was the towel he used to wrap Red Label in when he cleaned it.
“Abrelo” – “Open it,” he said in Spanish as he placed it in my lap. Confused, I pulled back the cloth, exposing the Ruger Red Label. Instantly, I could smell the remnants of linseed oil, with a hint of Hoppe’s No. 9. They mixed together, filling the room with a sweet odor. “You want me to clean it?” I asked sheepishly.
“La escopeta es suya ahora. Es su tiempo pa’ ser memorias,” – “The shotgun is yours now. It’s your time to make memories with it.” My father knelt down and assembled the shotgun. Once put together, he opened the action like he had done an untold number of times and presented it to me. With outstretched arms, I grabbed The Red and with a firm snap, closed the shotgun. Immediately, I felt the warmth that wood gives off, offset by the coolness of the metal receiver. I swung the over-under at an imaginary bird, snuffing its life out like the flip of a light switch. I envisioned countless scenarios to come carrying The Red and shooting birds with it. He watched me as fathers do when sons do something for the first time. He moved in close, and we hugged. Unbeknownst to me, his lesson the entire time was for me to learn to appreciate and value such an heirloom. It worked.
Turning my attention back to The Red, I asked, “What are you going to shoot now?” From the gun cabinet he pulled out a fancy, engraved Spanish double. I quickly reached for the over-under, when my father sternly said, “Don’t touch the shotgun.”
Author’s note: I have yet to touch, hold, carry, or shoot the shotgun.
The post Don’t Touch the Shotgun appeared first on Field Ethos.
Continue reading...