You Will Shoot Your Eye Out

The gems I’m about to talk about are usually hidden under a bed, inside a forgotten closet, or perhaps residing at your safe’s rear. They have the uncanny ability of being overlooked but can warm your heart while soothing your soul like no other.

When picked up, their power is not from the caliber they’re chambered in but rather the emotion they stir in the individual holding them. The longer you hold them while caressing and fondling them, the more their superpowers become clear in the form of memories.

Better than any book, these guns tell a story, bonding the current keeper with someone of significant importance from their past. They have “spell-casting” abilities, letting the holder relive special moments from the past. The gun evokes memories of learning to shoot or the excitement of a first hunt with the very gun in their hands.

No matter the occasion, holding it frees the memories from the deep, dark vault of the keeper’s subconscious. Reliving the memories brings a satisfaction the holder appreciates. Therein lies the beauty.

Cursed

The dreaded curse of owning guns such as these is that the previous owner has likely vacated this world. While the body is gone, the spirit is remembered through iron and wood. It’s what makes the bond and kinship of gun cronies special, as only gun people understand this importance. I know you know the feeling.

Holding one jars memories from the place we last stored them. These memorial guns are special indeed. Fortunately, or unfortunately, I have several of these guns. While holding a special place in my heart, I’d much rather have the person here. This leads me to another kind of gun capable of stirring the exact same emotion but without the heartache.

Surprise Guns

I talk to my friend Ted weekly on the phone, and we sound like two enthused 10-year-olds swapping hunting, cop and gun stories. While conversing with him the other day, he gave me this sage advice, “look for sign.”

“What do you mean, Ted?” I replied with confusion.

“Just watch for sign,” he repeated.

A few days later, my wife lugged in a long narrow box she had to sign for. Confused, I wasn’t expecting anything. But it was the proper size for a rifle.

I opened it up as any 10-year-old would and pulled out a bubble-wrapped long rifle. The words “look for sign” go through my head, and I know what it is.

Ted sent me his custom flintlock we have talked about so many times! I was surprised, shocked, dumbfounded, ecstatic and confused. Why would he do such a thing? We’ve swapped books on several gun-related topics about different characters in history. But this? Holy cow! After looking the gun over, I went to throw the box out. It was still heavy. Inside was another muzzleloader — this one a percussion lock. I couldn’t believe it.

I called Ted and said, “Are you crazy? What are you doing?” He just cackled at me, saying, “Remember, I told you to watch for signs.” I thanked Ted profusely, telling him I would take care of them and that we are just keepers of such treasures until they are turned over to another keeper. Ted was able to witness my joy and appreciation in real-time while, thankfully, still being on the same side of the dirt as me.

As I wiped my new treasures down with Ballistol, I asked my wife if she would mind me hanging them up in our living room so I could admire them while working from the kitchen table or watching TV. She agreed, noticing a single tear rolling down my cheek. “Aw, are you crying?” she asked. “Nah, these old guns are notorious for dust,” I replied, leaving it at that. The name stuck.

Name Game

Guns such as these are deserving of special names. But why name such grand rifles “Ol’ Dusty” when they’re meticulously cleaned, oiled and wiped down after each use? It’s simple, really. Every time I shoot them or pick them up, my eyes well up. Must be dust, right? Everyone should own at least one gun they refer to as “Ol’ Dusty.” I have two.

I’ll have to do a full article on Ted; he’s that interesting and worthy for all of you to get to know. He’s a retired cop, was on the Kentucky muzzleloader team and eats fried frog legs every Sunday at the Chinese buffet in his hometown. I told you he was interesting. He’s my kind of guy. Even if his guns are kinda dusty.