Let me tell you a tale of a revolver.
This revolver, to be exact.
Nothing special, a simple heavy barrel Smith Model 10-8 .38 Spl, thousands exactly like it around, and this one was even reblued by a former owner. But how it got where it is today, now that's not quite so ordinary.
Back in the very early 70s, a WWII veteran was struggling to stay ahead, working as an aircraft mechanic in a unionized state, and he had a terrible choice to make. He could cross a picket line, risking a beating, or worse, or he could watch his ailing wife and 3 young daughters starve. There was no choice, but being an older man, he decided to even the odds, as best he could.
The man I would call my stepfather years later went to a local gunshop, and plunked down some very hard earned cash for a Brazilian made Taurus Model 82, 4 inch barrelled .38 special revolver, the cheapest thing they had, and a box of standard 158gr lead round nose ammo. That ribbed fluted wheelgun rode with him across the picket lines for a time, until the strike was settled, and gave years of service, by simply doing nothing.
Wait a minute, that's not the handgun up there in the picture, what gives? Ah, the plot thickens...
Fast forward a few years, to 1976, when a divorced mother of two met a recently widowed father of three girls, all who had just left the nest, and they fell in love. This incredible man decided to start over raising kids, taking on the responsability of two rambunctious boys. The old Taurus rode in the closet, never squeaking.
When the I began becoming a firearms enthusiast, gradually my new stepfather would allow me to use the guns he had, a beat up Wards Western Feild 22 rifle, and that old 38. The wheelie finally got fired, and we discovered why Taurus was known as a junk gun manufacturer back in those days. It jammed, cylinder would bind after 20-30 rounds.
A few years later, in the early 90s, after I came back from the service, I shot Pop's 38 again, and decided to get it fixed. Taurus would not give it the lifetime warrentee, and charged me more than a few dollars to have it sent twice, until they finally replaced the ejector rod and crane, under protest. I had had enough of that, and cast about to try to get my stepfather something better. At a local shop, now long out of business, a good friend of mine showed me a revolver he'd taken in trade, a Smith 10-8, that he said the guy who sold it to him had re-blued. Darn good job, I thought. My security guard pay check allowed for a long lawaway only.
Finally, it was almost paid for, and I got impatient, told Pop if he let me get rid of that junky old Taurus, I'd surprise him with something better. He handed it over with a grin, and off I went. One traded across Brazilian "masterpeice" later, and that shiny new Smith lay in front of my stepfather, this time with a box of Winchester Silvertip ammuntion.
Over the next remaining years, this wheelgun remained in the same places, under their bed, in the closet, etc. I took it out shooting about once a year, cleaned and loaded with fresh ammunition, until they moved south, and I moved north. Then, the last time, I cleaned it hard, and oiled it well.
One Monday morning two months ago, the Good Lord called my mother home, and my 87 year old stepfather, now mostly blind, and berefit of a wife yet again, decided to let his retired girls give him a hand into an assisted living community. After the service, they helped him to start the process selling his house, and moved his effects up north. But while I was down with him and the rest of the family before he left, he had me come into his closet, and told me to retrieve a dusty box from up high. He simply said, "It's yours."
Maybe it's not a lightsaber, maybe my stepfather was not a Jedi Knight, but I will be happy to pass this family heirloom down to my son in some years, after I get some more shooting time with it, first.
And that's the tale of a simple revolver, one among thousands just like it, and none anywhere like it at all.
