sm
member
I was reminded of another event of yesteryear.
I was returning home and stopped by one of Americas Classic little “hometownsâ€. You know the ones, where folk’s angle park in front of the merchant’s shops and the parking meter allows 2 hours for a dime. If one looks over the shoulder, there is the County Courthouse right as is should be – centered in the Town Square.
The Fellow at the Gulf Station had pumped my gas, checked my oil and tires, another had cleaned my windshield. I had a 27 gallon gas tank and it taken 25 gallons to fill up. I was due change from my $10 bill, I said to keep the change.
I parked in front of the Drug Store, took a seat at the counter. I ordered an open faced roast beef sandwich with gravy, fries, and dinner salad, un-sweet tea…and noticed the fried pies…I ordered two apple of course. A Couple of kids sitting on the floor, reading comic books, the Cherry Cokes from the fountain sitting on the floor next to them.
I finished up and went a few doors down, Hardware shop was still there, I walked in, and the bell chimed my entrance. Some heads popped up and greeted me, I greeted back. It had been awhile, we caught up and visited.
Pssst, Mister.
I went over and peered at the table, laid out were the firearms and such. Widow Women had passed on to join her husband, having not had kids, and the kinfolks “turning out†they way they had…some stuff don’t need to go to kinfolks.
"Whew- What is that smell !," I inquired. I was handed a towel with a stinky firearm. A single shot .410 that had not been forgotten, just the Widow had been laid up for a bit, she had left in the shed where it always stayed, with nobody to give it attention, and it had weathered none too well. The stock was mildewed and molded; the rust came off on the towel.
Pssst, Mister.
I was then handed the coffee can with the various .410 shells, some rim fire and the copper label told me the can was that of Browning gun oil. I set these aside.
Once upon a time a fella could work out a deal for Model 12 with Winchester, do a payment plan. I shouldered such a gun, I admired the leather gun case. The Winchester 30-30, the Model 52 rim fire rifle, another Winchester single shot 22, and another .410 single shot like the one in a towel, this one had served duty inside the house.
A simpler time? Nah...just folks had the right tool for the task at hand, and knew how to use them - very well I might add. Some stuff don't change , time may go by...some things don't though.
Only fitting the brothers should have these, their daddy, had he lived, would have enjoyed seeing these reminders of sales to an old friend, in a different time – a different era. Yeah, the old Tin Winchester signs were still in the hardware store, now behind the office door with other memorabilia.
The ledger was torn, the billing due for a Fridgadaire ice box, Fedders window unit, and some other misc stuff was squared up. The piece of leger, handwritten accounting was no more, gone into the trash. I remembered the widow women, lot of fire in her step, .410 shells in an apron pocket, hanging out the clothes, the .410 leaning on a stump. The coldest and best tasting well water, she would wipe her brow with the apron first, them put the doves in the apron…nodding her head and thanking me. I would have to go inside, and have a glass of tea, or lemonade, and visit with fresh baked cookies.
Pssst, Mister
I took some ribbing when I pulled out of my trunk a faded blue towel and the .410 single shot, stuck some shells in my pouch and headed to the dove field that early morning. If I did my part, the birds fell, some stuff doesn’t need explaining, and some things a fella cannot put into words.
The 11 doves were in my ice chest as I headed home, the oil stained finish, the bluing, even with some “character†had glinted in the sun. My grin was brighter though. I didn’t have a regret one for using this gun, the time to clean it up, or the $5 bill and two soda’s from the Coke machine I had put a nickel in for each, watched the cylinder turn and retrieve the six and half ounce drinks with ice in the neck of the glass bottle. The Brothers understood, no words, just that unspoken understanding.
Yeah, I had heard it, the blue towel, the .410, the coffee can and assorted shells and Browning oil…
Pssst, Mister
I was returning home and stopped by one of Americas Classic little “hometownsâ€. You know the ones, where folk’s angle park in front of the merchant’s shops and the parking meter allows 2 hours for a dime. If one looks over the shoulder, there is the County Courthouse right as is should be – centered in the Town Square.
The Fellow at the Gulf Station had pumped my gas, checked my oil and tires, another had cleaned my windshield. I had a 27 gallon gas tank and it taken 25 gallons to fill up. I was due change from my $10 bill, I said to keep the change.
I parked in front of the Drug Store, took a seat at the counter. I ordered an open faced roast beef sandwich with gravy, fries, and dinner salad, un-sweet tea…and noticed the fried pies…I ordered two apple of course. A Couple of kids sitting on the floor, reading comic books, the Cherry Cokes from the fountain sitting on the floor next to them.
I finished up and went a few doors down, Hardware shop was still there, I walked in, and the bell chimed my entrance. Some heads popped up and greeted me, I greeted back. It had been awhile, we caught up and visited.
Pssst, Mister.
I went over and peered at the table, laid out were the firearms and such. Widow Women had passed on to join her husband, having not had kids, and the kinfolks “turning out†they way they had…some stuff don’t need to go to kinfolks.
"Whew- What is that smell !," I inquired. I was handed a towel with a stinky firearm. A single shot .410 that had not been forgotten, just the Widow had been laid up for a bit, she had left in the shed where it always stayed, with nobody to give it attention, and it had weathered none too well. The stock was mildewed and molded; the rust came off on the towel.
Pssst, Mister.
I was then handed the coffee can with the various .410 shells, some rim fire and the copper label told me the can was that of Browning gun oil. I set these aside.
Once upon a time a fella could work out a deal for Model 12 with Winchester, do a payment plan. I shouldered such a gun, I admired the leather gun case. The Winchester 30-30, the Model 52 rim fire rifle, another Winchester single shot 22, and another .410 single shot like the one in a towel, this one had served duty inside the house.
A simpler time? Nah...just folks had the right tool for the task at hand, and knew how to use them - very well I might add. Some stuff don't change , time may go by...some things don't though.
Only fitting the brothers should have these, their daddy, had he lived, would have enjoyed seeing these reminders of sales to an old friend, in a different time – a different era. Yeah, the old Tin Winchester signs were still in the hardware store, now behind the office door with other memorabilia.
The ledger was torn, the billing due for a Fridgadaire ice box, Fedders window unit, and some other misc stuff was squared up. The piece of leger, handwritten accounting was no more, gone into the trash. I remembered the widow women, lot of fire in her step, .410 shells in an apron pocket, hanging out the clothes, the .410 leaning on a stump. The coldest and best tasting well water, she would wipe her brow with the apron first, them put the doves in the apron…nodding her head and thanking me. I would have to go inside, and have a glass of tea, or lemonade, and visit with fresh baked cookies.
Pssst, Mister
I took some ribbing when I pulled out of my trunk a faded blue towel and the .410 single shot, stuck some shells in my pouch and headed to the dove field that early morning. If I did my part, the birds fell, some stuff doesn’t need explaining, and some things a fella cannot put into words.
The 11 doves were in my ice chest as I headed home, the oil stained finish, the bluing, even with some “character†had glinted in the sun. My grin was brighter though. I didn’t have a regret one for using this gun, the time to clean it up, or the $5 bill and two soda’s from the Coke machine I had put a nickel in for each, watched the cylinder turn and retrieve the six and half ounce drinks with ice in the neck of the glass bottle. The Brothers understood, no words, just that unspoken understanding.
Yeah, I had heard it, the blue towel, the .410, the coffee can and assorted shells and Browning oil…
Pssst, Mister
you tell a good tale and boy ... I do declare - you are as bad a nostalgic and romantic as me!!