A History of Guns: Part Five

This is the fifth in a personal history of guns in my life. Previous entries: Part One, Part Two, Part Three, and Part Four

The College Years
I didn’t spend a lot of time hunting or shooting in college. My dad was busy running his business and I was busy trying to stay as far away from home as possible. There was this one quail hunt down near San Saba on one of those December days with a battleship gray sky and a chill in the air. We went with the electrical contractor my dad knew who seemed to kill everything that flew. Later in the day when we were following a covey through a grove of mesquite trees, I thought I accidentally shot my dad, but I didn’t (insert Dick Cheney joke here). And later, when instructing me in the art of cleaning quail, the electric contractor, in an effort to add to the description, asked me, “You ever stick your finger in some ol’ gal’s twat?” Uh, no, sir. Not with my dad standing right there. The awkward moment passed with a lot of laughter at my expense.

I slept on the most uncomfortable couch in the world that night while my father played poker all night. When we drove off in the foggy morning, my Dad was several thousand dollars richer and earned a hefty “commission” not to say anything to mom. Not 100 yards down the road, we stopped as 100 or so deer silently bounded out of the fog, across the road and disappeared again into the mist. The moment was one of those magic, time stops kind of moments. We never went hunting again.