As father/son relationships go, Dad’s and mine lasted 64 years. We shared a lifetime of hunting, shooting, reloading and “accumulating” all kinds of firearms, including rifles, shotguns and handguns. We shot them all, reloaded for most of them and added to the trove periodically when our finances aligned with our desires. And sometimes, when they didn’t.
The story of Dad’s last gun is a puzzle that, once assembled, was the sum of our knowledge and wisdom, somewhat belated, with a seemingly contradictory outcome if viewed after the fact. It’s a story best told from the beginning.
From my early teens, hardly a day went by when my father and I didn’t discuss, fantasize and argue (sometimes heatedly) about the merits of one gun versus another. My poor mother bemoaned the perpetual subject matter in vain.
My late mother, Marilyn, and my late father, Harry, raised me well; Dad worked as an electrician, and Mom was an advertising copywriter. We lived in a modest house in a cozy, middle-class, tree-lined suburb in Wisconsin.
Under my father’s ), magazines, and sales literature in the basement was always open to me, on one condition (not always honored) that I .
