Memories of My Dad

Federal's traditional purple 16 gague shot shell

Dad died a few years ago, and occasionally something reminds me of how much I miss him.  Today it was taking to the field with some friends for the first day of dove season.  I shot pretty well, always keeping in mind the truism from "Downton Abbey" that a shooter always wonders which is worse, "the sorrow at killing the bird, or the humiliation when you miss."  I had my fair share of both today, but the real story of the day was about remembering Dad.  He always shot 16 gauge.  In the old black powder days it was the perfect round ballistically.  When silver powder came along with its multitude of load possibilities, the "16" waned in popularity here in the US, although I'm told it remains very popular in Europe.  But I've always stuck with it because that's what Dad used. 

Last week, in preparation for the hunt, I stopped by Gander Mountain and picked up a few boxes of Federal shot shells in #8, the correct size for the small and elusive rockets that are called doves.  When I got to the peg today and opened the box to chamber my first two shots, I realized that the hulls on Federal 16's were still purple plastic.  My mind raced immediately back to the purple shells that were always stacked neatly in the bottom of the gun closet in Parker where I grew up.  It was almost like Dad was there with me.

My Dad: May he rest in peace

It's funny, the things that can trigger a memory.   For me is is usually something small and unexpected, like a purple hulled shotgun shell.  I'm glad it works like that.  I find great comfort in remembering what has gone before me, and in looking forward to what is to come.

Flowers, and Memories of Those We Love

Yesterday morning, I harvested several beautiful yellow dinnerplate dahlias and arranged them in a crystal vase for wife Rebecca's office in our home.  She paid me one of the most wonderful compliments I could ever have received.  "Grandpa would have loved your dahlias."  I replied, "I didn't know he kept them."  She responded, "Oh yes, he always said they were as big as a dinnerplate."  I think it was the first time I have ever been cast in his shadow, and it is an honor indeed.

Ray Bonar grew up on the Ohio River and enlisted in the US Army just in time to deploy with General Blackjack Pershing's boys to Mexico in response to Pancho Villa's raid into US territory.  He was a trooper in D Troop, 12th US Cavalry, and had a horse shot out from under him during the war.  His leg wound ultimately brought him back to Ohio where he worked as a mining engineer, married Blanche, and reared three daughters, one of whom is my mother in law Twila.  Rebecca remembers him as a very old man who was quiet, squatted on the porch in a very curious position while entertaining a very special little girl, read National Geographic Magazine a lot, and was more than willing to spend time with his eldest grand-daughter, now my wife.  He chewed Mail Pouch Tobacco, and used to keep a pouch filled with prunes so that Rebecca could chew and spit with him when other adults were not around.  My wife worships his memory and treasures the love he showed to her.  I never got to meet him, but over the years I have heard so much about him.  I remember how when I posted to the 107th Cavalry and received my spur award, I felt close to him- as if we shared some common heritage or experience.  And now his little girl, my wife,  invokes his memory in appreciation of my dinner plate dahlias.  Truly, I am a man blessed by God.