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.