My 80 Years With Guns
Before we go any further, I’d like to confess that when I was eight years old, before I had any interest in girls, I was very interested in guns.
Wasn’t everybody?
I lived on a farm about two miles southeast of Weldon, Illinois. My dad had a Winchester 22 rifle, and a 12-gauge shotgun. And most of our adult neighbors, as well as some of the older youth, had guns.
Guns, without a doubt, were a large part of our farm culture.
Recently, with all of the violence involving guns, I’ve been looking back on my gun experiences, and trying to figure out why guns played such a prominent role in our rural society, and why I ended up with my current attitudes toward guns.
My Father, and Guns on the Farm
My dad didn’t glamorize his guns. He just used them for things he thought needed to be done around the farm — to kill an animal for butchering, kill a live skunk that had gotten into his trap on his trap line, “put away” a horse that had become irreparably injured, protect his family when an unsavory group camped under the dredge ditch bridge (threatening harm or theft), or scare off that proverbial “fox in the chicken house.”
And yes, he shot rabbit, pheasant, and squirrel to provide food for his family.
Beyond that, I remember those fun Sunday afternoons when our relatives came to visit and we had competitive target practice by shooting cans off of fence posts with the rifle.
All this involved a healthy respect of the guns, and attention to safety. I was taught at an early age that “a gun is not a plaything.”
My Early Experiences With Guns: The Pretend Stage
About as early as I can remember, I had heard stories about “cowboys and Indians,” and loved to pretend I was one of them. (I recognize the prejudicial basis of these stories and games, but will talk about them in order to depict accurately what was going on “down on the farm” when I was a kid.)
And make no mistake about it; cowboys had (you guessed it) guns. We soon found out that Indians sometimes had guns too.
Dressed like cowboys and Indians, with broomsticks as our horses, and lots of verbal sound effects for our wood stick guns, we chased each other all over the barnyard, letting our imagination run wild.
A little later, still in the pretend gun stage, I crowded together with the boys behind the outdoor toilet at one-room Prairie View school, and we (in secret) decided we were going to each make a pistol carved out of wood and bring it to school.
I really wanted to do well, but even with my father’s help, we were no match for the creative Carr family (my second cousins) who brought in carved wooden pistols that no doubt would have taken first place at any county fair.
Two additional events occcurred, unsolicited, to heighten my interest and intrigue with guns.
First, when I was about eight years old, in order to attract customers, the merchants in Weldon began showing outdoor movies uptown on Wednesday night. And yes, you guessed it. Most of them were Westerns (Tom Mix, Ken Maynard, etc.) and they all involved guns.
Second, the advent of World War II ushered in a new interest in guns.
All kinds of guns were touted — from rifles to cannons, to guns from the turrets on airplanes — providing real fodder for my gun-related imagination.
It was as somebody had decided to propagandize the kids that lived around Weldon with the lore of guns.
Moving from Pretend to “Sort of Real”
To fulfill what seemed to be a growing boys need at that time to have a “real” gun, we made our own rubber-band guns, and lucked out when someone gave us a pop-gun (which used air to force a cork out the barrel with sufficient speed).
I well remember my first pop-gun, and its fate. My sister, who is four years older than me, had a friend visiting her. My reaction to them ignoring me was to shoot them with my pop-gun.
When my mother discovered this chicanery, she promptly cut a branch from the peach tree, swatted my legs all the way to the outdoor toilet, and witnessed my forced dropping of the pop-gun into the toilet. Later, I spent a good deal of time trying to get it out, but to no avail.
We also had great fun on the Fourth of July with our cap gun pistols. (Each little gray circle on the roll of caps contained a small amount of gun powder that popped when struck by the hammer of the gun.)
And then there was the BB gun. Given how poor we were, and the lack of support from my mother (who said, more often than I liked , that “you could put your eye out with a gun like that”), I still can’t remember or believe that my parents gave me a BB gun, but evidently they did.
Today it seems to me that my childhood ability to shoot and kill a sparrow with the BB gun and not feel any remorse was a deficiency in my education about reverence for all life.
Then, it was the excitement and power that came from just being able to do it. It must have been satisfying, because I killed a lot of sparrows (as well as mice, snakes, rats, and ground squirrels) with my trusty BB gun.
My parents (with my mother occasionally dragging her feet) gave me the impression that it was an okay thing to do.
And Finally, the Real Thing
I think I must have been around 11 years old when our Winchester Model 1890 rifle essentially became mine. If “possession is nine-tenths of the law,” it no doubt was, because I was using it (in one way or another) what seemed like all of the time.
It did everything my BB gun did, only better. I used it to hunt rabbits in the snow, shoot snakes (from an advantageous position on the bridge) who were sunning themselves on rocks in the dredge ditch, kill squirrels for us to eat, and for target practice.
I even got lucky one time and killed a pheasant taking off, with the rifle.
As for the 12-gauge shotgun my father owned, it had a little too much “kick back” when I was 11, and made my shoulder hurt. But, around 13 years old, I started using it to hunt pheasants with my dad and other relatives and friends.
Moving To Adulthood
If you guessed that all the shooting I did when I was a kid served me well when I was in the Army, you would be right.
My target scores when we were learning to use the M-1 Rifle were among the best in our platoon. My grouchy Sargent found a way to take credit for me being such a good shooter, and never once attributed it to me.
It seemed that adulthood drew me to continue my “involvement” with guns. After my father was killed in a farm accident, I kept the Winchester Rifle, which had been owned by my grandfather, my father, and me. I broke it down, and put it in a drawer, along with a few shells in a plastic box.
The culture of my early adulthood seemed reminiscent of those Wednesday night movies when I was a kid, when two of the earliest shows on that new thing called “television” were “Gunsmoke” and “Have Gun, Will Travel.”
There seemed to be no end of the attempt, through all means possible, to glorify guns.
As the years went by, my involvement with that treasured Winchester rifle changed, actually decreased, but never quite ended.
On one occasion, I found out that the father of my daughter’s boyfriend seemed to know a lot about guns. He told me that I could improve the looks of the gun by getting the barrel blued. (Bluing is a method of treating a gun barrel to turn red iron oxide (rust), into black iron oxide. The blue-black appearance of black iron oxide improves the looks of the barrel, and is why the process is called “bluing”.)
I let him talk me into doing it, but afterwards learned that by bluing the barrel, I’d pretty much eliminated the antique monetary value of the gun. Oh well, live and learn.
On another occasion, living on Gregory street in Normal, Illinois, I was under a lot of work pressure. To add to it, every morning at five a.m., a woodpecker would peck loudly on the downspout just outside my bedroom.
I tried everything.
I put up little whirligig propellers, brightly colored and noisy, to scare said woodpecker away. I got ear plugs. I even prayed for the woodpecker to leave for greener pastures.
But one morning, when I hadn’t slept well and was trying to catch some winks before facing what I knew would be a horrendous day, the woodpecker was at it again.
Sleepily, I went to the drawer, put the rifle together, and put in a shell.
The woodpecker had flown to the top of a big tree in our front yard. As I looked north past the tree, I noted that the University farms stretched for a mile, so a shot would be safe.
So M-1 Specialist O’Daffer took aim, and shot the woodpecker. Placing it in the garbage can, with guilt mollified by my childhood experiences with sparrows, I crawled into bed and was soon fast asleep.
End of story, not.
That afternoon, my two elementary school daughters somehow found the remains of the woodpecker in the garbage can, and invited all their friends in the neighborhood to view an open casket. Needless to say, my reputation in the community was somewhat sullied.
And finally, I confess that I put the gun together on a couple of other occasions.
Unable to shake the idea that a part of growing up is experiencing a gun, I took my son to a dredge ditch, and we did a little target practice (with me secretly hoping that maybe a snake would come along).
And I did the same for my grandsons. I recall that my daughters and granddaughters didn’t show much interest when this activity was mentioned. Perhaps they sensed that in that age, guns were a “man thing.”
The Last Phase
When I was about 80 years old, and getting ready to move into the Luther Oaks senior living community, I became aware that my Winchester rifle would not be welcome in my new home. Having blued the value out of it, I couldn’t sell it for much as an antique, and, anyway, didn’t really want to “remove it from the family.”
So my son Eric agreed to keep it. I had to go through a gun store to legally mail the rifle to Sammamish, Washington. When it got there, Eric stored it in his neighbor’s gun case. Later, he found he couldn’t legally do that, and it found its way, fully registered, back to his closet, where it resides today.
The Final Analysis
There is no doubt in my mind that living on a midwest farm in the 1930s, 1940s, and even the 1950s was living in an age of a fading “old west” culture, where you just about had to have a gun.
Not only did you think you needed it, but I would argue that it, like the muscle or sports car, it was somehow part of your manhood.
While I grew up in this mild “gun culture,” I spent the rest of my life easing my way out of it, never totally succeeding, but certainly changing the emphasis.
So let me review my 80 years with guns.
- At six I was pretending to be a cowboy or Indian with a gun.
- At nine, I was shooting every small animal that got in my way with a BB gun.
- From ages 11-24, I was hunting rabbits and pheasants with a rifle or shotgun.
While in college, I read Albert Schweitzer’s book, “Reverence for Life,” and never thought about killing animals the same again (Schweitzer’s point of view could be stated as “never destroy life that breathes, unless it is unavoidable.”)
After that, the closest I came to hunting an animal was with a camera on an African Safari about 10 years ago. Today, you couldn’t get me to hunt and kill animals. It just wouldn’t seem right, unless it was for life sustaining food.
And yet, I respect those who like to hunt responsibly, and appreciate the value it has in keeping certain animal populations under control.
And while I still find guns moderately interesting, and I’m happy we have an old rifle in our family that was owned by four generations, I am not looking to expand my gun collection.
I still think target practice is fun, and don’t have anything against it as a sport.
But, somehow, the violent gun related deaths of too many school children have taken the edge off of the fascination with guns I felt in my early years.
And for the life of me, I can’t bring myself to accept the idea that assault weapons, or any guns with high capacity magazines have a legitimate role to play in any of this.
And I pray for the day that we wake up, and everyone accepts the need for more responsible rules regulating the acquisition and use of guns in our society.
Bill Hammitt
I love the interesting stories you tell.
Thank you.
Phares O'Daffer
Thanks, Bill. It’s fun to find people like you who understand the age I grew up in. I appreciate your interest in the stories.
Phares
Chris Eggan
I agree wholeheartedly.
Thank ypu for sharing.
stacy chuchro odaffer
Phares: Thanks for this great piece! I love going back to the farm with you. This is a fun insight into the evolution of your life and experiences. XO
Phares O'Daffer
Thanks, Stacy
My apologies for the gun in one of your closets because of me. 🙂
If you need to kill a woodpecker, feel free to use it.
Seriously, your insights are always appreciated.
Kathy Gossard
Phares,
Having grown up on a farm, I can appreciate how guns were a part of your farm life. My dad had a Winchester and a shotgun, and had to use them before butchering and when an animal was after our farm animals. He was not comfortable with shooting for sport and hesitated when anyone wanted to hunt on our property. Of course, my brothers were more interested in the drama of guns as you were. It was definitely part of our local midwest culture. With my own children and grandchildren, they know “Mom/Grandma doesn’t like guns!”
Thank you for sharing your story. Like always, it was fun to read.
Phares O'Daffer
Thanks, Kathy
I appreciate hearing how it was with your father re guns, as well as your philosophy.
Thanks for your kind comments.
Phares
Kent King-Nobles
Thanks for passing on your experiences and your wisdom, Phares.
Charles Baue
I to grew up on a farm and we used guns to hunt.
When I was young and trying out my BB gun I killed a sparrow. At first I was elated but became sad when I realized what had happened.
While in basic training at Ft. Leonard Wood Mo. I became an “Expert” using the M1 rifle. It was amazing. If you followed the operational instructions, you could hit your target 300 to 500 yards away. I tied for first in my company.
Phares O'Daffer
Charles, amazing the commonalities in our experiences. You never know where the early experiences on the farm will take you.
I’m happy to know we both survived Ft. Leonard Wood!
Larry Eggan
I never owned a real gun. But I played cowboys and Indians into high school. Probably had to since I grew up out west and never had a real gun.
Enjoyed your story. Thanks
Phares O'Daffer
Larry, glad you enjoyed the post. I can’t believe a great northwestern U.S. guy who didn’t get caught up in the “gun culture.” OK though- you turned out alright.
Phares
Judy Brown
Keep these interesting and varied stories coming, Phares. T’was a time when my younger brother and I played cowboys, complete with a squirrel-hunting BB gun, out in the wilds of Arlington, VA! I traded that fascination to horses! Ah, but that’s a story for another time.
Phares O'Daffer
Judy, thanks for your kind comments. Surprising that everyone seems to have some sort of “gun experience.” Nice to know the W. Virginia, Illinois commonalities.
Jim Bortell
Phares—my gun history in many ways is parallel to yours; I.e. a city boy with farm cousins, cowboys, cap guns, BB gun, an antique Stevens 22 that I took apart and only my father could put back together, finally a shotgun to keep up with my farm cousins. It was the end of my gun career. When I killed my first pheasant and then with my cousins on Thanksgiving Day we hid under corn stocks and when the ducks descended we emptied and loaded again—maybe 50 ducks down, neck ringing, and that was enough. I don’t own one now, but still keep a little “feeling” for a beautiful walnut stock shotgun. Schweitzer’s influence, etc. and I find eating beef and pork is getting more of a problem, free range eggs, and fish are becoming more my meat diet. Thanks for these tombs from your life.
Phares O'Daffer
Jim, thanks for the interesting data about your “gun life.” I forgot about cap guns. Those were a part of it too. Its fascinating to see how similar the experiences of many of us are. Thanks for replying.
Phares
Richard Marberry
As you know, I grew up in similar circumstances as you. I had the same pop guns, BB gun,identical rifle and a 20 gage shotgun. My grandfather kept the rifle on top of a cinder-block wall in our basement. It didn’t take me long to discover where it was. Wesley is now the owner of the shotgun but it legally resides in our house because of my FOID card.
My desire to kill small animals and birds ended at a relatively early teen age after witnessing a wounded rabbit suffer.
Phares O'Daffer
Richard, thanks for your comment on my Guns post. Amazing how a lot of people have had the same experiences. Do you know where your grandfathers rifle is now?
P.
Sue Thornquist
Hey Dad, I finally got around to reading your post. I laughed at the first line immediately. Gotta say I was never really interested in girls OR in guns. So that answers the question in your next line, “Wasn’t everyone?” Haha.
I really enjoyed your piece and, of course, could relate to or remember some of the stories. The woodpecker (though I didn’t remember the show and tell afterwards, so that was a great detail) story, the story of your bb gun down the outhouse toilet, the Rex’s dad story and the subsequent bluing of the gun, and of course, the experience you referenced with “Boudro” out here in AZ with the grandkids and a few of us adults where we went into the desert and had an opportunity to shoot a gun. I don’t remember what kind of gun it was, though–I’ll have to look at my pictures.
And perhaps my love of westerns comes from what you passed down with guns, cowboys and Indians and shows we watched like “Bonanza” and “Gunsmoke” which I loved, though I’m skeptical that my interest in them was because of the guns. That Little Joe was cute; Miss Kitty and Marshall Dillon were a good couple :).
You said many things that I didn’t know or remember and I really appreciated the sense of your own personal history with guns. Not sure I ever knew of your success as a shooter in the army, and never really getting credit for it.
A very informative, well written and engaging post, Dad. As always!
Keep em coming.
Sue
Phares O'Daffer
Sue, thanks for your insightful and complimentary comments on my gun post. Glad you liked it.
The “open casket” viewing of the woodpecker was not made up. I remember it like it was yesterday, and the comments I subsequently got from Helen Threlfal.
Dad
Howard Daughenbaugh
Phares, this was another of your wonderful stories out of your life and legend. Have just gotten around to reading it. It strikes me as being part admiration, confession, and transformation.
Have had a few personal experiences with guns, not all with happy endings. Still,thank you for bringing back memories which include one about a Red Ryder BB gun once given to me as a Christmas gift.
Another is an experience as a young boy in the depths of World War II admiring and seeking to hold, not recognizing its weight, an army submachine gun carried in a jeep driven by a sgt. visiting our home. The big toe on my left foot has never been the same.
The final one is with a 12 gauge shotgun loaned to me as a teen ager by a cousin who convinced me in one of my weaker moments to accompany him at an ungodly hour of the morning on a duck hunting expedition in southern Louisiana. Riding in a little skiff on the Intercoastal Canal plied regularly by tug boats is not a good idea.
Still, carrying two holstered cap pistols strapped to my waist and demonstrating that they could be drawn as fast as the fastest gun in the west is a memory worth its weight in gold. Long live the Lone Ranger, Red Ryder, and Roy Rogers!
Thanks for recreating the memories, Phares.
P. S. Mentioning the Schweitzer book was an extra bonus.
Phares O'Daffer
Howard, thanks for your interesting response, and comments. One of the rewards for writing a blog post is the very interesting stories I get back in return.
The events and the good humor in your explanations are great fun.
Phares
J. Gordon Bidner
Thanks for sharing your ‘gun story’ with us. I too owned a BB gun and of course a cap pistol. I too remember the free shows on the side of a building in Mansfield. I also own a 22 rifle that my father had as a boy and use is every once in a while for possums, raccoons, ground hogs and an occasional skunk. Guess I need to pass this ‘weapon’ on one day soon to another generation. Thanks, Gordon