In the Southern Tradition men are often the teachers and educators of young boys in the ways of
hunting and handling firearms. I remember as a child my Paw Paw handing me a single shot 20 gauge and looking at me with eyes that said, “You are ready.” Here I was a nine year old boy being entrusted with my Paw Paw’s favorite firearm. He leaned down, loaded a shell, and began instructing me in the proper handling of a “shoot gun” as he called them. I remember the way the gun felt, the smell of grease and gas on my Paw Paw’s hands, and the gentle touch of his bear like hand on my back. It is a memory that is locked away and will forever bring a smile and a tear. However as wonderful as the feeling of this “first” was for me, I never thought how he felt. That is until I bought my son Payne his very own “shoot gun.”
Payne had developed an interest in archery and shooting. He would talk on and on about different
firearms and which was better in his opinion. He was finally ready to learn. The day had arrived that
I had been anticipating for 11 years. I decided that he was ready for his own “shoot gun.” I began
browsing around and after looking at the local stores decided on a gun. It was a pump Remington 870 Express 20 gauge. I decided on the synthetic stock because I felt he could hold it a little easier.
It was a thing of beauty! I bought it and a box of bird shot. There was a lump in my throat forming that I couldn’t explain. The “shoot gun” was to be a Christmas present, so I went home and after thoroughly examining the firearm (and cleaning it just for fun), it was wrapped it and placed it under the tree.
Christmas morning finally arrived and amidst all the excitement I could think of only one thing –
Payne opening the package that contained his very own “shoot gun.” He must have instinctually known what it was because he saved it for last increasing my excitement tenfold. When he finally got to the present I could see the light in his eyes. He untangled the mass of ribbon and wrapping paper on the present and his face broadened in a grin that only a young boy has; half mischief and half innocence. He checked to ensure the “shoot gun” was unloaded and then hoisted it to his shoulder lining his eye down the barrel. He looked at me and eagerly asked, “When can we shoot it?” I grabbed the box of birdshot and said, “Right now!” We both ran through the house and out the back down to the wooded area on the back side of the yard. After a 20 minute discourse on proper handling, ensuring a clear target with nothing behind, and another lesson on proper handling of a loaded firearm, Payne was ready. I watched as he loaded three shells, slid the pump back and shouldered the “shoot gun.” He found his target which was an old blue bucket that my dogs had chewed on, snapped off the safety, and pulled the trigger! After the thunder issued from the barrel, he snapped the safety back on and looked up at me.The smile on his face was one I will always remember. Then it hit me. The lump in my throat grew too large to ignore and a tear rolled down my cheek. I knew how my Paw Paw felt. It was a “first” for me that I will always keep entrapped in my heart. Payne saw the tear rolling and asked why I was crying. I responded with, “I’m not crying. Just have some dirt in my eye.”
We spent the next hour emptying the box of shells, cleaning up our mess and after clearing the
“shoot gun,” we headed inside. With Payne walking at my side I said, “You know, you’re a pretty good shot.” Payne stopped walking and said, “Of course I am. I’m your son.” I had to hide my eyes from the dust making them water.
To all the fathers and grandfathers who are the guardians and educators of young men, you are true Southern Hooks.
- JD
