D-Day
Member
Thinking back on my youth, I remember years ago going to gun shows at the younger ages of 15 and 16 with my dad and the uniqueness of so many guns that I saw...my parents didn't really have a lot of firearms, perhaps because I was young and growing up. The most I knew we had was an H&R .22, my dad's junk .22 rifle, single shot shotgun (another H&R), and a little .25 my mom had. Guns were not really a big part of our household. My dad also had an old good condition Smith .38 that I remember him selling for the distinct price of $150 at a gun show (a true deal these days) when I was even younger.
I always wanted to go to gun shows, since I didn't own any myself and wanted to admire them. I think they were always concerned for my safety. I had air rifles, pellet guns and the like for pest control on the farm, but not even so much as a .22 (I did, however on occasion get to use one of their .22's, but not often); which changed when I was 16 with a fancy 10/22. But this is not about my first .22.
When we would go to the gun shows, my eyes would always go for the 1911...always the 1911; the gleam of my eye. Like sirens that called out to me, no other gun could possibly catch my attention like it. I had never held one. It was the only pistol I could think about.
Seeing them was always a blur, and heartbreak. I didn't have the money to buy one, and even if I did, my parents thought I was too young anyway. I had dreams of owning a 1911, literal dreams in my sleep they haunted me that much.
I remember now how odd it was to see them actually in person, as if surreal. You imagine them as these big honking handguns, but they're so slim, so perfect...I remember the mag wells being particularly small looking, despite being a large caliber handgun. Since I never held one at that point, I would read and obsess about and form these images in my mind, and the memories of seeing them would fade and I would be surprised again and again every time I went to a show.
After I turned 16, they started getting more open to getting more guns, with the start of my first .22 rifle. Just a few months later I convinced my dad to buy a crappy $250 Llama; it wasn't officially mine (more unofficially mine), neither theirs - sort of a house gun. I got to be in charge of keeping it safe. I remember how enjoyable it was to finally have and hold one of these. I remeber the weight of the steel in my hand that felt like a tool, but was nothing like a hammer. I can't describe the feeling...you've probably felt the same at some point in your life too. It's just a feeling.
Sure, it was a Llama, a knockoff of a 1911, and in poor condition to boot. But do you think that mattered to me at 16? Heck no. I finally had a real gun. Not more than a month later or so, my dad traded it for a better Llama, a pretty much mint condition (still mostly is to this day) with beautiful bluing, and gave it to me for Christmas. I can never recall a failure to feed or fire as long as I used its factory magazine.
I had a few other first guns, including a .30-06 Model 700. I was starting out slow and small, and basic, but I was trying to get there. At the age of 18 I finally saved up the money for a real(er) 1911, a 5" Springfield Armory Mil-Spec in stainless. That was even better than my Llama, and beautiful. However, that one took some tuning, but I was happy nonetheless.
Now it is years later, and I own several other 1911's, as well as other more interesting guns; more interesting than a 10/22, a Llama, or a barebones Remington 700. I carry a 1911 on my hip every day, and I never feel that same novelty as I once did when I was a young lad going to my first gun shows. I holster my 1911 every day and hardly think about it - though once in a while, just a great while, it'll hit me how lucky I am to have what I have acquired, and I'll hesitate for just a second before I holster it, and smile, thinking back on my younger days.
I guess in retrospect it can be equated to the novelty and first time of a lot of things... like owning your first car. Knowing that it was all yours, something that was your responsibility, what it represented; and that was freedom.
I always wanted to go to gun shows, since I didn't own any myself and wanted to admire them. I think they were always concerned for my safety. I had air rifles, pellet guns and the like for pest control on the farm, but not even so much as a .22 (I did, however on occasion get to use one of their .22's, but not often); which changed when I was 16 with a fancy 10/22. But this is not about my first .22.
When we would go to the gun shows, my eyes would always go for the 1911...always the 1911; the gleam of my eye. Like sirens that called out to me, no other gun could possibly catch my attention like it. I had never held one. It was the only pistol I could think about.
Seeing them was always a blur, and heartbreak. I didn't have the money to buy one, and even if I did, my parents thought I was too young anyway. I had dreams of owning a 1911, literal dreams in my sleep they haunted me that much.
I remember now how odd it was to see them actually in person, as if surreal. You imagine them as these big honking handguns, but they're so slim, so perfect...I remember the mag wells being particularly small looking, despite being a large caliber handgun. Since I never held one at that point, I would read and obsess about and form these images in my mind, and the memories of seeing them would fade and I would be surprised again and again every time I went to a show.
After I turned 16, they started getting more open to getting more guns, with the start of my first .22 rifle. Just a few months later I convinced my dad to buy a crappy $250 Llama; it wasn't officially mine (more unofficially mine), neither theirs - sort of a house gun. I got to be in charge of keeping it safe. I remember how enjoyable it was to finally have and hold one of these. I remeber the weight of the steel in my hand that felt like a tool, but was nothing like a hammer. I can't describe the feeling...you've probably felt the same at some point in your life too. It's just a feeling.
Sure, it was a Llama, a knockoff of a 1911, and in poor condition to boot. But do you think that mattered to me at 16? Heck no. I finally had a real gun. Not more than a month later or so, my dad traded it for a better Llama, a pretty much mint condition (still mostly is to this day) with beautiful bluing, and gave it to me for Christmas. I can never recall a failure to feed or fire as long as I used its factory magazine.
I had a few other first guns, including a .30-06 Model 700. I was starting out slow and small, and basic, but I was trying to get there. At the age of 18 I finally saved up the money for a real(er) 1911, a 5" Springfield Armory Mil-Spec in stainless. That was even better than my Llama, and beautiful. However, that one took some tuning, but I was happy nonetheless.
Now it is years later, and I own several other 1911's, as well as other more interesting guns; more interesting than a 10/22, a Llama, or a barebones Remington 700. I carry a 1911 on my hip every day, and I never feel that same novelty as I once did when I was a young lad going to my first gun shows. I holster my 1911 every day and hardly think about it - though once in a while, just a great while, it'll hit me how lucky I am to have what I have acquired, and I'll hesitate for just a second before I holster it, and smile, thinking back on my younger days.
I guess in retrospect it can be equated to the novelty and first time of a lot of things... like owning your first car. Knowing that it was all yours, something that was your responsibility, what it represented; and that was freedom.
