download - the National Firearms Association

By Grayson Penney
As I watched the evening news the other day I saw Liberal
leader Michael Ignatieff get before the cameras and announce
that he was once again flip-flopping on an issue of
national significance. Rather than allowing Liberal MPs to
vote as their constituents wanted, he planned on whipping
the vote - forcing many rural MPs to vote against the bill
and against the clear wishes of their constituents in what I
see as some vainglorious attempt at finding political relevancy.
Around the same time Frank Graves, Liberal Party
of Canada pollster of choice, was recommending to “Iggy”
that he should look into igniting a “culture war” between
urban and rural Canada in order to ensure success. Words
still escape me at this most crass example of political avarice
and irresponsibility that I’ve encountered in years.
Somewhere along the line, it seems, Liberals decided to
not only abandon rural Canada in favour of their urban
redoubts of Montreal, Toronto and Vancouver, but began
to view gun-owning rural Canadians as “the enemy.” One
of my oldest friends, upon hearing the comments made
by Graves and the lack of comment coming from Liberal
spokespeople, tore up his Liberal Party membership in disgust.
He’d been a Liberal supporter since 1949. As a lifelong
hunter and gun owner, albeit semi-retired now, “Joe”
had had a crisis of faith back in 1995 when the Liberals
introduced Bill C-68. While he opposed the gun control bill
on principle and refused to grant Chretien’s Liberals his
favour in the following election, he still kept his card and
paid his dues; believing that if he hung in there long enough
“his” party would rally and show some of the “greatness” it
had back in its glory days.
I guess the hypocrisy of Michael Ignatieff was the proverbial
straw that broke the camel’s back. Showing him video
of the Liberal Leader shooting an AK-47 from a number of
years ago during a trip to the Middle East probably didn’t
help. “Joe” is one of those types that always tried to see
the best in people, even when they are clearly undeserving
of his faith. I guess the cynicism and self-interest of
the Chretien/Martin legacy, combined with the ineptitude
of the Dion experiment and now Iggy finally took their toll.
While we were chatting about the subject my young grandson
Ryan, who was visiting for the day, ran into the room
“moose hunting” with his toy Nerf gun that shot soft foam
“bullets.” I knew that Ryan had been spending a lot of time
with his Uncle Sean and his Dad looking at videos of their
past hunting trips, and he seemed to never miss an opportunity
to ask his uncle to show him his gun collection; but I
hadn’t realized just how much he had picked up from both
role models. Both “Joe” and I noticed immediately that he
kept his finger off the trigger until he was ready to fire and
his muzzle control would’ve beat the pants off many socalled
“experienced” hunters I’ve shared a duck blind with
over the years.
“Joe” looked over at me and in a firm voice said that a boy
who could display such maturity and safe gun handling
deserved a “real” gun and not a plastic ray-gun straight
out of Flash Gordon. “I’m gonna’ reward that young fella’
and piss off a Liberal all at the same time,” he mumbled
to himself as he headed out the door toward his battered
old Lincoln. He returned the next day with a butcher-paper
wrapped parcel under one arm. “Uncle Joe” had a gift for
Ryan...a like new Red Ryder lever-action BB gun!
I’d planned on picking one up, maybe for his birthday next
year, but at five Ryan was mature enough to handle it with
proper supervision in my own estimation. Still, raising an
eye at the gift, “Joe” told me not to worry as he’d already
cleared it with Ryan’s dad. I’ll admit that I was initially a
little jealous that I wouldn’t get to buy my oldest grandson
his first BB gun, but seeing the wonder and awe on his
young face those thoughts quickly disappeared.
Watching Ryan unpack his new rifle I thought back to my
own childhood during the 1940s and 50s - running in the
woods playing “Cowboys and Indians,” “hunting lion” on
the savannahs of Africa or pretending we were “going to
the ice” hunting harp seals with my three brothers. Like
Ryan, we were to grow up using and enjoying firearms from
the time we could keep both ends out of the dirt and were
viewed as being responsible enough to handle this trust by
our father, known to all as “The Skipper.” I know times are
different now and the thought of children being trusted to
use even a simple BB gun unsupervised is anathema; still,
nobody ever lost an eye and we never ever shot at anything
we didn’t intend to hit.
Looking back, my brothers and I, along with our best
friends essentially formed our own band of merry men that
would’ve rivalled any that Robin of Locksley could’ve
ever put together. Instead of being armed with stout longbows
of English yew, we were the band of the “Daisy BB
gun.” Those of us lucky enough sported genuine Red Ryder’s.
Even though they were not
the most expensive BB gun available
through the Eaton’s catalogue,
the Red Ryder was the rifle
that held the most cachet amongst
our gang. It had been introduced
in 1938 by Daisy Outdoor Products.
It resembled the lever-action
Winchester rifles popularized by
so many Western movies and pulp
magazines of the era. Named for
the comic strip cowboy character
Red Ryder, the little Daisy BB gun
was a lever-action operated, spring
piston air gun with a smoothbore
barrel, adjustable iron sights, and a
gravity feed magazine with a 650
BB capacity. Unlike other Daisy
air rifles of the day, it sported a
special engraved wood stock, and
a saddle ring with leather thong on
the receiver. At the height of its
ballistic prowess, the Red Ryder
produced velocities of about 280
feet per second and had an effective
range of about 10 yards.
We all purchased our ammo from
the local general store. The BBs
came in paper tubes or crinkly cellophane
packages and we happily
exchanged our week’s allowance
in exchange for an almost unlimited ammo supply – at
least for that day. And oh how we shot! It would not stretch
credulity to say that we literally shot tens of thousands of
BBs in the run of year. After school, once the chores were
done, we all made it a point to disappear until supper-time
came; otherwise additional work would be found for our
“idle hands.”
We spent those days afield in the woods behind our house
or along the rocky beaches of our Conception Bay home
shooting and then shooting some more. Imagining ourselves
as pint-sized Warren Pages or Robert Ruarks, we
hunted vermin along the beaches and woods just as devoutly
as our childhood heroes hunted bighorn sheep or African
elephant. Rats, field mice, sparrows, starlings, cowbirds,
grasshoppers, star fish, sea urchins, periwinkles all fell to
our deadly fire. Reading stories of daring-do we started
practicing our own trick shots as the challenge of hitting
birds on the wing started to pale. We eventually got to a
point where any of us could easily shoot a pebble or bottle
top tossed in the air 4 times out of 5 at ten paces.
The sights on our BB guns were primitive at best, but we
didn’t care. Like so many of the best competitive shooters
in the adult world, we reached a point where we could simply
visualize the shot. The actual ballistic trajectory of the
fired BB was as familiar to us as our own reflection and we
were able to make hits that even Daisy probably would’ve
said were impossible. In essence, our BB rifles had become
extensions of our psyches and thus ourselves. Interested
only in the purity of the shot, we were able to find “the
void,” that place of pure concentration that allows the most
successful competitive shooters to excel. I wouldn’t be exaggerating
to say that those days probably saw me fully
realize my potential as a “rifleman.” I don’t think I ever
again equalled the same level of skill and accuracy of arms
as I did as a youth afield with my Red Ryder. Alas...
As we got older the Red Ryder’s were put away in favour
of Cooey and Winchester rimfire rifles; and while our skills
as marksmen didn’t have that much of a chance to atrophy,
that special spark and sense of wonder simply wasn’t there
any longer. Rimfire ammo, even .22 shorts were substantially
more expensive than a tube of BBs, so we couldn’t
afford to shoot as much. Slowly, the outside world began
creeping into our thought processes and the pressure of
“not missing” became more important than actually exalting
in the purity of the moment as we squeezed the trigger.
All of this ran though my mind in the moments it took
Ryan to unwrap his new Red Ryder and I smiled. Without a
doubt, that other Red Ryder from a half-century ago played
a major role in shaping the man I became. Most certainly
the acquisition of the Daisy BB gun was a rite of passage
for my chums and I, just as it was for my own boys. Now
we had come full circle once again. I was excited to know
that I would once again be afforded the opportunity to observe
yet another young man grow and develop into a responsible
member of our recreational firearms community
and to assume the role of hunter, shooter and provider.
I know I’ve said it before, but looking into the glowing eyes
of my grandson I thought of all the missed opportunities so
many parents could’ve taken advantage of to spend a day
afield with their kids teaching them to hunt and shoot. I
would argue that this is a part of our shared cultural identity
and it is something to be celebrated, not something to
ashamed of, as ideologues such as Frank Graves would
have the larger populace believe. With the start of a new
shooting season, not to mention all the political turmoil we
currently face as shooters, why not make time today to take
your kid or grandkid shooting? They truly are our future
and it is we who serve as the stewards and protectors of
their birthright; we must guard it well! ...And that is the
last word!
46 June/July www.nfa.ca www.nfa.ca June/July 47