Me and Lisa went over to Mom's house for dinner tonight along with my sister and her boyfriend. It was all good, having a nice time and then I asked mom for the combination to Pop's gun safe. She'd been on me to inventory his guns for a while but I'd been putting her off because, well I don't know. But tonight was the night.
It was hard to handle his guns. I mean, they weren't high value guns by any means, I think the most valuable gun in there was his Belgian Browning Sweet 16, but they were him, you know? His 870 Wingmaster, his little 410 that fed us when he was stationed in Ft Leonard Wood in the early 60s, his Remington 760, his little Savage 22 that he's had forever, his Weatherby 22-250, all of his handguns...... Every one of those guns had some memories to them. The hardest one though was the little Stevens bolt action 22LR that his Pops gave him and then he gave me when I was 6 or 7, the one I learned to shoot on. I can remember us stripping down and refinishing the stock, then reblueing the barrel and when we were done him handing it to me and making me promise to hand it down to the child I never had.
I don't know, I had a lot of shit going through my mind - with each rifle, shotgun or handgun that I handled I was flashing back to the time when he first got them and then going back to recent times when we'd go shoot and his hands were shaking so bad he couldn't shoot straight and him getting pissed off - realizing that his shooting days were effectively done and seeing how bad that hurt him, then me pulling my shots on purpose and blaming our misses on the wind or sun on our eyes or whatever to make him feel better, but both of us knowing better but not saying so.
Rough fucking night, man.