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Ithaca Auto & Burglar
That’s Ace Fernandez, celebrating a win at one of the past Elmer Keith Long
Range handgun shoots. He’s holding a vintage Ruger Super Blackhawk in .44
Magnum, and he knows how to use it! He is flanked by Guy Maakad (left),
Ed Parry (right) and Bob Toppen to the rear.
Ace Fernandez is walking proof one should never compete with a guy named “Ace,” and never, ever, underestimate anybody on a shooting range who has a snow white beard, mild demeanor, affable disposition and a great, big hogleg.
I’ve known Ace for at least a decade and then some, and I can say without fear of contradiction — because he’s done it in front of witnesses — he is one of the most remarkable and annoyingly proficient long-range handgunners anywhere. Perhaps what I like most about this old gentleman is that he hasn’t made a career of running around bragging about it. Guys like Ace do what they do and then go about their business.
Fernandez is, or we should say was, a mainstay at the annual Elmer Keith Memorial Long Range Handgun Shoot, which I wrote about a few months ago under the headline “The Last Dance,” (add internal link to previous story) because after 20 years, this wonderful little gathering of handgunners from around the Northwest came to an end this year. I will miss watching him shoot.
So, when a nondescript padded envelope with something inside appeared in my office mail recently, with his return address label on the corner, it got my immediate attention. It felt kinda like a pocketknife, but wasn’t quite heavy enough. Out came my dangerously sharp Spyderco and with a quick swipe or two through layers of tape, what came out of an inner package was a stunner.
There, in my greasy little palm, was a pistol magazine for an original Ruger Standard semi-auto, about which I also wrote recently. Original magazines are fairly rare anymore, so a couple of days later, while taking a break from house painting (yeah, even writers have “normal” chores during the summer!), I called Ace to thank him and see what I owed him for this little treasure.
From the ‘Old School’
Me: “Do I owe you anything?”
Ace: “For what?”
Now there’s a guy from “the old school” with whom you could sit at a campfire, reminisce, share a tall tale or two, and burn powder most of an afternoon in the farmlands south of Spokane and never get tired. It is, after all, the “little things that count” in life, and guys like Ace are to be treasured, only if for the sake of saying you met them.
Ace Fernandez may look like an old guy who might shoot a little,
but don’t kid yourself. This particular old guy is one of the best long-range
handgunners I’ve ever seen. And he’s generous!
According to his brief narrative, Ace was sifting through some boxes of stuff (that’s what we call junk out here in the wilds) and came across this Ruger magazine. Apparently, there was no longer a gun for it in his safe, and I can only presume he had read my earlier piece on shooting grouse with .22 pistols — a horrid habit us westerners have developed over several generations, much to the chagrin I presume of haughty New Englanders who sit around the fireplace at the hunting lodge in the fall, reminiscing about all the great missed shots they’ve fired through their 28-gauge Purdeys, but at least we folks in the settlements eat well — and decided the magazine needed a new home.
It evidently occurred to Ace he knew this cantankerous, and frequently obnoxious gun scribe upon whom charity is probably a wasted effort. So, he explained, “I needed to get rid of some stuff.” Thus, his package with the treat inside landed on my desk. Well, it wasn’t my birthday and it wasn’t Christmas (in my case, they fall on the same day in December), so being the pitiful wretch that I am, I gratefully and most humbly accepted his generosity.
See the difference in follower buttons? The one on the left was sent to
Dave by Fernandez, who found it in a box of “stuff” and it fits an original
Ruger Standard pistol.
Now, this particular specimen must have been a really old original. I reached that conclusion because instead of a rounded head on the magazine follower button, the “Ace model” has a flat button. I cannot recall ever having previously seen one of those, but everything else about this magazine was true to form. The first thing I did was insert it into my pistol and it fit like a glove.
However, I quickly discovered the follower didn’t descend and rise smoothly, and it turned out the magazine was so dry inside — likely from sitting idle for years — I had to lube it up with some gun oil and Gunslick graphite compound. Works good, now! By the time you read this, I’ll have likely capped off a few rounds at fool hens, and hopefully will be dining this evening on grouse, barbecued or fried in a cast iron skillet, remembering Ace helped put it there.
The Moral
I guess the moral to this story is that one can never take for granted the friendships that spawn on a gun range, or around a campfire or any other place where camaraderie is always on the agenda.
Little gestures make big impressions because they are the sort of thing nobody ever has to do, but does so anyway. That is the sort of fellow Ace is, and there is usually somebody just like him in any fellowship. You know the type. The older guy with wrinkles he earned, probably the hard way, to whom there is much more than meets the eye.
But be wary of the ones called Ace. They can probably shoot rings around you on their worst day, and do it with such nonchalance it may drive you nuts.
Hospitals can be the source of some seriously high drama. Sometimes it
comes from unexpected quarters. Unsplash photo. Photographer: JC Gellidon
I am a man greatly blessed. I have seen the world, served my country and saved a few lives. I get to write for gun magazines and claim it’s work. Friends describe me as the luckiest man alive. I cannot dispute that appellation. However, one “lucky” episode stands above all others. As hard as it is to believe, yours truly did actually get an order of fries and a hamburger from a McDonald’s restaurant while they were still only serving breakfast.
This tale begins in the ICU with a hulking female drug addict who had recently overdosed. She came out of her drug-addled stupor enraged, belligerent and ready to rock. Before anyone could intervene, she tore out her IV lines and perched on the side of the bed — snarling. The ICU staff called both the cops and the on-call psychiatrist.
I was but a lowly medical student on the first day of my psych rotation. We arrived in the ICU to find pure, unfiltered bedlam.
Appreciate the scene. This was not one of the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders — this woman was absolutely huge and utterly out of her mind. The two cops were impressive physical specimens in their own rights. This was shaping up to become World War III in microcosm.
The psych resident uttered a few well-placed words, declared victory and retired to write in the chart. That left the enormous, drug-addicted crazy woman, two surly cops, a dozen or so highly-trained ICU staff watching from a healthy distance and yours truly. Everybody inexplicably stared at me.
“So, pretty crummy day, huh?” I inquired amicably.
The woman glared at me, gestured to the two cops, and said flatly, “First I’m going to kill them, then I’m going to kill you, and then I’m leaving.” The verbiage has been sanitized out of deference to sensitive readers.
Drawing on my vast well of psychiatric experience I responded, “You look miserable. How about something to eat?”
At that the woman’s visage grew quizzical.
“You know, I am hungry. What you got?” she asked.
I looked around and saw no food handy.
“Well,” I said, “There’s a McDonald’s in the hospital. Let’s make a deal. You tell me what you’d like, and I’ll go get it. In return you promise me you’ll stay here and not attack those two nice police officers before I return. What do you think?”
She mulled it over for a moment and agreed. We actually shook on it.
Unsplash Photo. Photographer: Shahbaz Ali Ye
The McDonald’s in this massive hospital was located right next to the cardiac cath lab. I found this oddly amusing. I declared a medical emergency and pushed my way to the front of the line. The sullen uniformed teenager looked perturbed, as did the other patrons, but this was a hospital. Weird stuff happened there.
I explained that I needed a Big Mac, a large order of fries and a Coke. Like an automaton she explained it was ten after ten in the morning. They wouldn’t be serving from the lunch menu for another twenty minutes. I needed to pick something more breakfast-ish.
The crazy chick in the ICU had been very specific. I elaborated it was an emergency. There was somebody in the ICU who was going to die if I didn’t get a Big Mac, a large order of fries and a Coke. The teenager’s eyes grew wide, and she summoned her manager. I repeated my request and said I didn’t have time to explain.
The manager sprang into action.
Unsplash Photo. Photographer: Aliazukrina Wqyan
“Drop me some fries!” he shouted. “Grill me a Big Mac! Get this man a Coke!” I tore off mere moments later with exactly what I needed. In case you’re wondering — emergency or not — I did have to pay for it.
The drug addicted woman was right where I left her and indeed grateful for the food. I kept her company while she ate. Once sated she thanked me and explained yet again the order in which she was going to murder everybody. However, the ICU staff had made good use of the intervening time.
A nurse had drawn up about half a quart of Haldol, a powerful antipsychotic medication. He slipped up behind her and jabbed her in the butt through her hospital gown. After the expected bit of unfettered chaos she calmed right down and ultimately got the help she needed.
Saving lives is one thing. Most anybody can do that. However, yours truly did actually once get a Big Mac out of McDonalds at 1010 in the morning. It’s arguably my most amazing accomplishment.
