The Day

The rifle remained hidden away for nearly a year until the annual fall cleaning of the gun locker. I retrieved the old .22, took it in my hands and sat down at the desk to just look and think. My great-grandfather had died years before I was born and to me he was mostly faded pictures and rare stories from my grandfather. In fact, it seems likely the gun had actually been passed down even farther owing to its age, but those stories were lost sometime in the last century.

However, while finally giving the rifle the contemplation it deserved, I felt a renewed sense of connection in knowing my great-grandfather and likely more had carried it for practical and pleasurable matters in the hills of southern Kentucky and later Indiana. Thus formed the obvious idea — I was compelled to carry on the family hunting tradition with this rifle at least once.