The Legend of the .22

This is a story of gift of love, a family curse, and the bloodshed brought on by the cruel fate of genetic inaptitude. While no lives have been lost, the next chapter of our story has yet to be written.

Two hundred years ago, when dinosaurs still drank Pabst Blue Ribbon beer from cans with removable pull tabs (some time in the early seventies), my father bought a gun. It was a Ruger, six shot, .22 caliber revolver. The gun was to be a gift for my grandfather for Christmas. Legend holds that my grandfather loved this gun. He would spend many a lazy summer afternoon in the back yard, shooting it like a gunfighter. He had a quick draw holster, and would practice ripping it from his belt to shoot outlaws that looked remarkably similar to beer cans and hub caps.

On one fateful day he missed the outlaw due to a snagged pistol and an itchy trigger finger. As he pulled the firearm from its holster, it went off unexpectedly. It was only half way from it's sheath when the bullet left the barrel. The slug entered his leg just below the knee on the right leg. It traveled about six inches through his calf muscle and stopped midway through the shin bone, where it would rest till the end of his days.

Fast forward to the late seventies, about three years beyond my grandfathers death. The weapon had passed back into the hands of my father, who also loved the gun. On a bitterly cold winter night my father walked out the back door of our home with the gun in his hand. We lived in rural Wisconsin, far from the nearest town. There was a great commotion outside that, I am told, was being caused by wolves or wild dogs near the house. My father's intention was to fire the pistol into the air and scare them away. As he stepped from the relative safety of the porch to the icy steps beyond, he slipped and lost his grip on gravity. The gun left his hand as he fell to the ground, spinning wildly through the air. As he tells it, he landed on his back and could see it floating toward the earth above him. He reached out in an effort to catch it as it fell. The revolver fell through his outstretched hand and hit the step. When the butt of the gun connected with the step, a bullet was fired toward the sky. The hot lead passed through his forearm in to the roof above him. It passed between the bones, tearing a tunnel all the way from one side of his arm to the other. All soft tissue damage.

As the story goes, my aunt was called to transport him to the hospital. Being the alcohol fueled former airborne green beret he was, Dad decided that no situation was too dire for nicotine. He made my aunt stop at a gas station so he could buy some cigarettes. He went in to make the purchase with a blood soaked kitchen towel wrapped around his wound and no one had the ambition to call the incident in to the authorities.

Fast forward again, if you will, to the year 1986. I was in junior highschool in southern Illinois. My friends and I were going camping in the forest near our home. We had all the essential gear. A tent, some folding lawn chairs, 12 beers and a jelly jar full of whiskey. The alcohol was all stolen from our parents,a little at a time so they would not notice the loss. I also had a stash of Playboy magazines and cigarettes, along with my father's .22 caliber pistol hidden deep within my backpack. He would have beaten me if he knew I had it. He allowed me to use his guns when supervised; but never alone.

We traveled to our campsite by motorcycle. It was a few miles from the house in small patch of woods. The woods were surrounded by barren plains of coal slag left behind by a long ago coal mine. Once we had set up our camp, we proceeded to flip through the Playboys and smoke our cigarettes. Over beers we discussed all the loose women we had been with, knowing that each of us was lying. We were all unwilling to expose the other's lie for fear of having our own lies exposed.

Eventually the gun was produced for the inspection of my friends. We had all seen and fired weapons. They were quite common in our area. Rare though, was the occasion when a boy could hold one free of adult supervision. We all took turns wearing the holster on our belts. Pulling it from the holster, spinning it on one finger, and shoving it back down into it's pocket was the main trick we employed to entertain ourselves.

We set up a shooting range along a log that had been set on top of a pile of dirt. At chest high, it was perfect. We quickly ran through half of the bullets I had brought. Later, as my friends heated beans and hotdogs, I sat in a lawn chair cleaning the weapon. It wasn't very dirty; but it was decided (by me mostly) that since I had provided most of the contraband for the trip, I would be excused from the more mundane camp chores.

As they cooked and gathered firewood, I grew bored. I thought that it would be funny to see the other guys jump at the sound of a gunshot, so I scanned for a legitimate target. There was one can left on the log at the edge of camp, so I thought it would do just fine. It was a little out of my line of sight. Shooting it would require a bit of stretching. I had to lean back in the chair and over to one side in order to get a clear shot at the can. As I pushed my weight to the limits of my flexibility I could feel the leg of my chair press against a large rock. I pushed hard against it trying to get the can into my sights. At the very moment everything looked lined up, I squeezed slowly on the trigger and felt the leg of my cheap aluminum chair fold in on itself. I fell hard on my side and heard the round leave the pistol. It glanced across the front of my right shin and disappeared into the trees, taking a piece of my shin bone with it.

The wound was quite painful, but superficial. It was severe enough to require medical attention, though I got none. I kept it clean and hidden for almost a week before my parents took notice. I told them that I had caught it on a log while riding my motorcycle. Years later, the story came out at a family gathering. My father was shocked but not surprised by the tale. He himself had done such things as a young boy, and I am not unlike him in many ways.

My wife swears that when the gun is eventually passed on down to me that it will not enter our home without being dismantled first. I am not opposed to this plan, but I am curious to see witch kid gets hit in the head with it. The family curse will not go quietly. If it can't shoot one, it will inflict its scars more passively.