01.15.07

"I've got a favour to ask you."
"Name it."
"Will you help me clean my guns?"
"Will I?" *girly squeal*

Can't help it, gun cleaning is satisfying. You get to use stinky solvents, barrel-cleaning wads, eensy-brushes, and make dirty things clean. What could be better?

I grew up around guns. With Pater being a cop, it was impossible not to. He decided, when I was six, to teach me how to shoot.

His reasoning, I guess, was that there was always going to be a loaded gun in the house. Since children are so curious, he wanted me to know how to handle a gun, and respect its power. I did, and I do.

We went out to a gravel pit near Laurel, Maryland. He lined me up in front of a target, loaded his service revolver (at the time, a .45), crouched behind me to brace me, and let me shoot. Wow. What a lesson. While we shot, he taught me about gun safety. Lemme tell you, I never fucked with his guns. Ever.

I remember sitting and watching him as he cleaned his guns. The smell of the solvent takes me back to those quiet times. Sitting on the living room floor, the television on in the background, as he dipped a patch into the the solvent, threaded the patch through the holder, and fed it through the barrels. Then he'd oil the metal, inside and out. Sometimes I'd get to do the cleaning. It was fun to watch the pristine patches turn dark grey with gunpowder.

Strange how smell can set off those memories.

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