My Application...
Earlier this month, with Christmas fast approaching, I decided that I'd put off buying a rifle for much too long (I'll be nineteen in February) and began making some serious preparations to do so.
I've been partial to .22 lever actions ever since I tried out a nearly-thirty-year-old Ithaca rifle that belongs to a friend of my dad. After some research, some posts, and some long conversations, I decided that the 39A would be the only rimfire for me.
The day after Christmas, with my savings and some holiday money pooled, I divulged the plan to my mother—a staunch liberal Democrat, very anti-gun, but raised by quite the outdoorsman and taught to target shoot when she was little—as I, living on a college campus, realized I would have to store the weapon at home. At first she was disappointed with my little "lifestyle choice", but seemed to warm up to the idea later that night. As the days rolled by, however, the seriousness of having a weapon in the house sunk in, and she insisted that I meet with my father's buddy (mentioned above), a trusted family friend and long-time gun owner.
The location for our meeting, which my mother carefully selected, was tipped slightly in her favor; a small, upscale restaurant in our little New York town, less than a mile from the city. One of those restaurants specifically designed for vacationing city folk, oozing with quaint, candlelight atmosphere and—you guessed it—more elitist socialite liberals than you could find at a Michael Moore book signing.
But all, as it goes, was not lost.
I arrived late to find my parents chatting it up with the restaurant's owner, who, to their surprise, was sporting a tailored English shooting jacket. Just as I walked up to the table, he was showing them the wide interior shell pocket. As I sat down, my dad turned to me and explained that they'd also discovered that the co-owner is an avid shooter, and that he'd told them only moments ago that he frequently goes rabbit hunting with the restaurant's cook! Before the night was over, all three of them offered to take me shooting as soon as I'd bought the rifle (especially the chef, a guy from the Bronx with two daughters perpetually opposed to the sport). Needless to say, my dad's friend walked in minutes later to find that his persuasion was no longer necessary. This stuff is common elsewhere, but I promise, it is a rare thing in this part of New York, especially in such a setting.
Anyway, I went to a local sporting goods store this morning and picked up my very first rifle. It was the only store in under a two hour drive carrying one, and it was their last.
It is a truly beautiful rifle. I promise to post photos tomorrow and I'm getting up early to drive to a range and shoot it for the first time—expect a virginal field report! Glad to be in the club.
—P
900F
