Sometimes things play out strangely.
My grandfather, who had a pecan and peach orchard in North Texas, died when I was 14. Last year my mom gave me his knife that he used to graft trees, a well-worn folder made by Bridge Cutlery and handled by Shapleigh Hardware in St. Louis.
Last year, when visiting my uncle who is ancient, I mentioned I remembered my g'dad shooting jackrabbits from his 8N with a .22 pistol. My mom had no recollection of any guns around the house but it was something I vividly remembered. My uncle said he had it stashed away and pulled out a slick Colt Woodsman. I admired it and told him to give me a call if he felt like he ever needed to rid himself of it. He said it would most likely go to his grandson and I agreed it would be a good idea. Not long ago, I grabbed one of the same vintage, figuring it would be the next best thing.
Yesterday, my aunt, who has never liked me (probably because she was so damn good looking and I was always staring at her as a perverted yout), called and said she was going to be passing through and wanted to drop something off. Lo and behold, it was my granddad's 1939 Colt! She didn't know her husband had it and didn't want her grandson to have any guns. I thanked her profusely but she still wouldn't let me hug her.
I'll probably keep it until they are gone and evaluate whether their grandson is worthy to become its caretaker. Anyway, funny how things work out. Now I have two of those old Colts.