My Rifle

I didn’t have a “love affair” with that old Winchester 22 rifle. Maybe it was a “really like affair.”

It belonged to my grandfather, and then to my father. When 12 years old, I used it to shoot rabbits, squirrels, snakes, tin cans off posts, and anything else I could think of.

As I grew older, adhering to Albert Schweitzer’s idea to “never destroy life that breathes, unless it is unavoidable,” I stopped shooting animals with my rifle. Almost.

I broke my pact only once, to shoot a woodpecker that had been making loud noises pecking on the downspout outside my bedroom window every morning at 5 a.m. for a month. I truly believe shooting that woodpecker was unavoidable.

When my father died the rifle became mine. It was a three-generation legacy, which made it even more precious.

To further the legacy, I took my kids, and later my grandkids, to a safe spot to learn to shoot the rifle. I think they understood the tradition, and respected my attachment to the rifle.

My “really like” affair with that rifle continued, but at age 80, I found that it wasn’t allowed in my senior living community.

But no problem! It was now in fourth generation as I sent the rifle to my son Eric’s house in Sammamish, Washington, where it resides in his closet today.

And I am secretly very curious as to who will be next person who carries on the tradition of owning that special Winchester rifle.

Painting of 1021 Gregory

When I was 10 or 12 years old and my sister a little older than that, my parents bought us a set of oil paints, brushes, some canvases, and an easel.

“Paint,” they told us. “Paint anything.”

Having already dipped our toes in the artistic water by taking ceramics classes, we were up for the challenge.

So we painted.

Most of what I painted was pretty ordinary. Clearly I was not going to be the next Mary Cassatt. Neither was my sister.

But when I look at the painting I did of our family home at 1021 Gregory Street in Normal, Illinois, where we grew up, I think it’s pretty good.

I’m surprised by the painting’s detail, scale, and coloring. From the sloped roof to the three-paned windows and large double front door under a hanging light, the architectural features of the house are precise and accurate. I didn’t exactly capture the salmon color of the brick walls or the front door, but the brown wood panels and red brick front walk are correct.

Then there’s the gray cat in the garage window. And the basketball hoop in the driveway. A perfect green lawn. The black lamp post by the sidewalk. An exact number of bushes. The tree well.

I’m glad I kept the painting all these years. Because what I see when I look at it now is a house that I loved and the happy family that lived in it.

Editor’s Note

This piece was originally published on the Storied Stuff website where you can find many stories about treasured objects from other people’s past.

A Poetry Journal

The journal’s inscription reads, “For my Grandma: this book is yours to write whatever you choose…a poem, a story, or a nice thought – all of which you have many…Love, Sara”

I gave this journal to my grandmother Ruby Atteberry in December 1982 when I was 23 years old. My dad gave it back to me in January 2000 after she died at age 97.

It’s filled with handwritten copies of the poems she started writing and sharing with family members when she was in her 50s.

A farmer’s wife with only a high school education, Grandma Ruby worked hard her whole life. She was smart, kind, and thoughtful – observing those around her and the modern world with wit and wisdom.

Her poems had a unique rhyming style that we dubbed “iambic Atteberry.” She wrote about people, her childhood, family events, society, and other musings.

As the self-appointed guardian of Grandma Ruby’s poems, I cherish and love them as much as I did her. She was truly rare.

I always wanted a red balloon.

It only cost a dime.

But Ma said she didn’t have the time.

And also she didn’t think it was worth the dime.

 She could of said “maybe.”

She could of said “yes.

But she didn’t.

 Now I have the money.

No one can tell me how to spend my dime.

And I have lots of time.

 The balloon is in the store.

But something in me has died.

I don’t want it anymore. – R.A.

Editor’s Note

This piece was originally published on the Storied Stuff website where you can find many stories about treasured objects from other people’s past.

The Picture

Movies have always felt very real and personal to me.

As a young teen, I went to Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid with my dad. I sobbed at the end when the two outlaws died. Concerned by my strong emotion, dad told me sternly, “Sue you need to learn that movies are not real life, or you’re going to have a tough road ahead.”

Fast forward to 1986, when Bruce and I were on our honeymoon in St. Maarten. We had spent the afternoon in a secluded cove, snorkeling and sunning.

The scenery triggered something in my memory. A movie scene flickered to life. I could see the lovers Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr stretched out on the beach, kissing hungrily as waves washed over them.

I grabbed Bruce and told him I needed him to do something for me that required careful orchestration. Bruce allowed me to position him on the white sand, water lapping at his feet. I draped myself over him and explained, “We’re recreating a famous movie scene. No time to describe it. We need to make out.”

“Right here on the public beach?” Bruce asked.

“Yes, right here. Right now. Go!” I had made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. Click.

While not an exact replica of the movie shot, it’s close enough that most viewers immediately say, “OMG, that’s the famous From Here to Eternity scene!”

My best friend Suzy saw The Picture and demanded to have a copy. Movie magic made real. And an image for all eternity.

Editor’s Note

This piece was originally published on the Storied Stuff website where you can find many stories about treasured objects from other people’s past.