From my time at gunsmithing school, written in response to a question posted on another forum - and, if you can believe it, never actually posted, though I did share it among the other student heathenry. Mostly inside jokes and painful memories in this one, but I figured I'd throw it to see what the gun-people at large think.
***
The MurrStakers should get this one....
On a forum I read now and again was posed the question - is gunsmithing as a trade dying out? An interesting question to be sure, and one worthy of thought, debate, and probably a Congressional inquiry that can waste millions chasing answers that I'd sell for fifty bucks or so, not counting shop time.
There are ten students/survivors in my class. Twenty more behind us, and likely twenty behind them. So there are gunsmith-pollywogs out there in the pipeline. How then account for the vanishing of the 'little guy' operations? Frankly...where have all the gunsmiths gone?
Let me tell you a little story...this one's been around the shop a few times. The fifty-odd idiots mentioned earlier know it well and will, with any luck, someday add the details of their own experience.
I like to think of this as an inside joke...maybe without the joke part.
***
A man walks in with a single-barrel breakover shotgun that's rusted shut. The stocks fore and aft are gone, the barrel has been cut off crooked with a hacksaw just thiiiiiiis much above the legal limit, and there's something rattling around inside the receiver. It's not the hammer or the trigger because what's left of both are frozen in place. Replacing the original trigger guard is a curl of aluminum which reads Budweiser when your turn it just right. There are no visible markings save a spot on the receiver where a former owner apparently engraved his driver's license number with a dull screwdriver.
The story? His great granddad won this shotgun in a poker game in 1904. It was only manufactured between 1892 and 1896, with half a dozen design changes during production, and there aren't too many examples out there because the factory issued a recall after the fourth change because they guns had a nasty habit of disassembling themselves when fired. At least after the second change the parts generally flew away from the shooter's head.
You do not know what change this is because A) this gun predates the requirements for a serial number and B) the last man who knew about the changes was killed at Chateau Thiery in 1918 - but it doesn't matter because all the records were destroyed after the factory switched to making clockwork Chihuahuas and was burnt down in the Zoot Riots, anyway.
Granddad kept this gun is his boat to deal with water moccasins. In 1976 his boat caught fire and sank, and just last summer during the drought the lake dried up enough that Dad waded out and recovered the what was left of the outboard motor, a tacklebox full of mud, and the shotgun.
Junior has arrived with this relic/priceless family heirloom, which he would like restocked, refinished, and returned to function.
There are no stocks available so you explain that you'll have to fit a set from a blank that costs more than the gun. The bore can be relined from a sewer pipe to something approximating a shotgun barrel which also costs more than the gun - this under the assumption that it doesn't explode when you set up and clean the outside with a barrel spinner. You think you can probably keep the walls thick enough they won't collapse under their own weight if you're very, very careful.
Assuming the pins in the receiver can be beaten out with a sledgehammer, all the internals will probably have to be manufactured and hand-fit. Conveniently, the customer has a dimebag full of replacements that be bought off eBay. Half of the parts are plainly guts for a Rossi revolver. The rest are an even mix of sewing machine components, pocket lint, and a Happy Meal toy that's worth more than the gun was brand new.
Working on the (generous) assumption that this can ever be restored to anything more than a novelty umbrella grip, you explain that any refinish work will be exceedingly labor intensive unless he wants half the gun to turn purple and the other half to dissolve in the caustic tank. He asks if the pieces can be made to match and you point to a rattle-can of black Duracoat, which he declines because paint wouldn't do justice to the restoration.
You inform the customer that while this example can be made presentable the undertaking will be costly, time-consuming, and likely result in the final product wearing an UNSAFE TO FIRE tag in print so big Mister Magoo could read that ****. Further, the holding corporation which bought what was left of the original manufacturer went out of forty years ago building gas tanks for the Ford Pinto, ergo there are no deep pockets left in case somebody wants to play Darwin Roulette sometime down the road.
The customers nods solemnly and asks if you can install a quality recoil pad (which, again, costs more than the gun) and thread for chokes. He brought a pair of choke tubes for this purpose - one Winchoke, one Remchoke. Each has a different thread pitch and it'd be great if they both fit when you're done.
You add up the prospective time in shop hours, process costs, and the copious quantities of hard liquor that you're going to need to see this through if the customer is dense enough to proceed. Meanwhile, he casually mentions that he was quoted this job by one of his friends higher up the food chain than you. Also, he'd really like this to be finished in time for Grandpa's birthday in three weeks.
***
Eight weeks later you're a walking wreck. You've dumped everything you have into the dark magic required for this unholy miracle. When finished, the gun looks better than new. You're on a first-name basis with customer support at Numrich, Sarco, and the Chinese eBay knockoff. Makers of stock blanks have added you to their blocked numbers. You can chart the progress of this nightmare by the value of Jack Daniel's stock. You didn't just put time, sweat, tears, and blood into this - this sumbitch ate part of your SOUL.
When you look in the mirror you no longer see yourself. You see things...terrible things. You have spent fully two weeks on the phone as your customer demands daily updates and changes the work order. You can no longer discern whether your lathe is out of true of it's just the dying gasp of your fine-motor skills. That funny noise is either your mill fixing to explode or your newfound alternate personality throwing itself into a jet engine. You fleetingly wonder how Permalyn tastes.
The customer arrives to pick up the gun. He thinks it looks alright - not bad for a job that's five weeks overdue. He wants to know about a gun case that you've never seen but which is now missing.
You get forty bucks. It puts a small dent in the expenses you had to pay out of pocket.
And if you're done with that there's a man outside with a Savage/Stevens 67 that needs some work...
***
So where are all the gunsmiths gone?
The damn nuthouse, that's where.
You gotta be crazy to be in this game. A special kind of crazy. Hearts-of-Darkness-Quentin-Tarantino-derailing-a-circus-train-into-a-burning-chemical-factory crazy.
I bet if we all run fast enough in different directions they ain't got enough butterfly nets to get us all.
***
The MurrStakers should get this one....
On a forum I read now and again was posed the question - is gunsmithing as a trade dying out? An interesting question to be sure, and one worthy of thought, debate, and probably a Congressional inquiry that can waste millions chasing answers that I'd sell for fifty bucks or so, not counting shop time.
There are ten students/survivors in my class. Twenty more behind us, and likely twenty behind them. So there are gunsmith-pollywogs out there in the pipeline. How then account for the vanishing of the 'little guy' operations? Frankly...where have all the gunsmiths gone?
Let me tell you a little story...this one's been around the shop a few times. The fifty-odd idiots mentioned earlier know it well and will, with any luck, someday add the details of their own experience.
I like to think of this as an inside joke...maybe without the joke part.
***
A man walks in with a single-barrel breakover shotgun that's rusted shut. The stocks fore and aft are gone, the barrel has been cut off crooked with a hacksaw just thiiiiiiis much above the legal limit, and there's something rattling around inside the receiver. It's not the hammer or the trigger because what's left of both are frozen in place. Replacing the original trigger guard is a curl of aluminum which reads Budweiser when your turn it just right. There are no visible markings save a spot on the receiver where a former owner apparently engraved his driver's license number with a dull screwdriver.
The story? His great granddad won this shotgun in a poker game in 1904. It was only manufactured between 1892 and 1896, with half a dozen design changes during production, and there aren't too many examples out there because the factory issued a recall after the fourth change because they guns had a nasty habit of disassembling themselves when fired. At least after the second change the parts generally flew away from the shooter's head.
You do not know what change this is because A) this gun predates the requirements for a serial number and B) the last man who knew about the changes was killed at Chateau Thiery in 1918 - but it doesn't matter because all the records were destroyed after the factory switched to making clockwork Chihuahuas and was burnt down in the Zoot Riots, anyway.
Granddad kept this gun is his boat to deal with water moccasins. In 1976 his boat caught fire and sank, and just last summer during the drought the lake dried up enough that Dad waded out and recovered the what was left of the outboard motor, a tacklebox full of mud, and the shotgun.
Junior has arrived with this relic/priceless family heirloom, which he would like restocked, refinished, and returned to function.
There are no stocks available so you explain that you'll have to fit a set from a blank that costs more than the gun. The bore can be relined from a sewer pipe to something approximating a shotgun barrel which also costs more than the gun - this under the assumption that it doesn't explode when you set up and clean the outside with a barrel spinner. You think you can probably keep the walls thick enough they won't collapse under their own weight if you're very, very careful.
Assuming the pins in the receiver can be beaten out with a sledgehammer, all the internals will probably have to be manufactured and hand-fit. Conveniently, the customer has a dimebag full of replacements that be bought off eBay. Half of the parts are plainly guts for a Rossi revolver. The rest are an even mix of sewing machine components, pocket lint, and a Happy Meal toy that's worth more than the gun was brand new.
Working on the (generous) assumption that this can ever be restored to anything more than a novelty umbrella grip, you explain that any refinish work will be exceedingly labor intensive unless he wants half the gun to turn purple and the other half to dissolve in the caustic tank. He asks if the pieces can be made to match and you point to a rattle-can of black Duracoat, which he declines because paint wouldn't do justice to the restoration.
You inform the customer that while this example can be made presentable the undertaking will be costly, time-consuming, and likely result in the final product wearing an UNSAFE TO FIRE tag in print so big Mister Magoo could read that ****. Further, the holding corporation which bought what was left of the original manufacturer went out of forty years ago building gas tanks for the Ford Pinto, ergo there are no deep pockets left in case somebody wants to play Darwin Roulette sometime down the road.
The customers nods solemnly and asks if you can install a quality recoil pad (which, again, costs more than the gun) and thread for chokes. He brought a pair of choke tubes for this purpose - one Winchoke, one Remchoke. Each has a different thread pitch and it'd be great if they both fit when you're done.
You add up the prospective time in shop hours, process costs, and the copious quantities of hard liquor that you're going to need to see this through if the customer is dense enough to proceed. Meanwhile, he casually mentions that he was quoted this job by one of his friends higher up the food chain than you. Also, he'd really like this to be finished in time for Grandpa's birthday in three weeks.
***
Eight weeks later you're a walking wreck. You've dumped everything you have into the dark magic required for this unholy miracle. When finished, the gun looks better than new. You're on a first-name basis with customer support at Numrich, Sarco, and the Chinese eBay knockoff. Makers of stock blanks have added you to their blocked numbers. You can chart the progress of this nightmare by the value of Jack Daniel's stock. You didn't just put time, sweat, tears, and blood into this - this sumbitch ate part of your SOUL.
When you look in the mirror you no longer see yourself. You see things...terrible things. You have spent fully two weeks on the phone as your customer demands daily updates and changes the work order. You can no longer discern whether your lathe is out of true of it's just the dying gasp of your fine-motor skills. That funny noise is either your mill fixing to explode or your newfound alternate personality throwing itself into a jet engine. You fleetingly wonder how Permalyn tastes.
The customer arrives to pick up the gun. He thinks it looks alright - not bad for a job that's five weeks overdue. He wants to know about a gun case that you've never seen but which is now missing.
You get forty bucks. It puts a small dent in the expenses you had to pay out of pocket.
And if you're done with that there's a man outside with a Savage/Stevens 67 that needs some work...
***
So where are all the gunsmiths gone?
The damn nuthouse, that's where.
You gotta be crazy to be in this game. A special kind of crazy. Hearts-of-Darkness-Quentin-Tarantino-derailing-a-circus-train-into-a-burning-chemical-factory crazy.
I bet if we all run fast enough in different directions they ain't got enough butterfly nets to get us all.
