The Gun

I recently attended a funeral for an old man. He was 95 when he died so it’s fair to call him old. During the service the husband of one of his granddaughters got up to speak.

The boy, excuse me the man, told a story about the first time he’d gone hunting with Jack. It wasn’t the smartest of choices to go into the timber with a renowned marksman as he didn’t know exactly how well Jack liked him being with his granddaughter, but he went.

He got his game that day.

But that wasn’t the story.

The story was far better.

At Christmas he noticed a long box under the tree. The box was for him. From Jack.

When he opened it, this is the part of the story where the boy, excuse me the man, choked up.

In the box was the gun he’d used that day in the timber. Jack said it was traditional for the father in his family to give their sons their first gun. Since the boy, excuse me the man, didn’t have a father growing up, he wanted to be the one to give him a gun.

I didn’t choke up when the boy, excuse me the man, told the story. It was a few days later as I was driving down the road and thought about the story again that I choked up.

Thinking about the first gun my Dad gave me, an old single shot Excel 12 gauge.

Thinking about kids I’ve met over the years that haven’t had active fathers in their lives.

Thinking about an old man’s life and his love for a boy that wasn’t shown a father’s love until he was a man.