When I was a kid, I took a summer job driving a wrecker for a local towing company. In addition to being on the police rotation for crashes (and I saw some grinders I really didn't need to see at that age), we had contracts with various businesses around town, impounding cars off their parking lots. You've seen those signs: "Unauthorized cars towed at owner's expense". Guys would park their cars in a well-lit hotel or supermarket lot, then walk next door to the tavern. The vigilant parking lot owner would then call us and we would go quickly hook up the offending vehicle and drag it away to our impound yard. After last call, the unsuspecting driver would stagger out and find the family wagon missing. Eventually, he'd figure out where it was and he and his drunken buddies would make their way to our very remote, very dark storage lot where I would have to collect the fee (in cash) and release the car, all by myself, in the wee small hours of the morning. Reflecting back, this was little more than legalized theft, but you don't always comprehend those details when you're young. Needless to say, this nuance was not lost on the car owners and the transactions were often uh, tense. My boss, concerned for my young life (more likely fearing what my well-known dad, who was big enough to be nicknamed "Moose", would do to him if I got hurt) decided it would be a great idea if I was armed during these nocturnal encounters. I readily agreed, but at age 18, while it was quite legal for me to carry a handgun (openly, in a holster on my belt), I was prohibited from legally purchasing one. No problem; the boss had one lying around somewhere that he would gladly loan me.
And so began my long and storied career as a gun toting keeper of the peace, at least that is, the peace surrounding my young, fragile body. The historic firearm in question was a nickel plated Iver Johnson 3rd Model Safety Hammerless revolver (a mouthful, if not quite a handful). Chambered in .32 S&W caliber (a slightly larger bullet than a .22), it was manufactured sometime around the 1930's and yes, that was old, even when I was a kid. The five rounds of ammo in the cylinder were all corroded and green. I spent a week's pay at a surplus store for a nice leather holster (undoubtedly worth more than the gun) where the little revolver happily resided until I eventually returned it at the end of my employment. I never fired that gun or even drew it from the holster. Whether or not its presence ever had any deterrent effect on a would-be assailant will forever remain a mystery. Who knows, you might actually owe your existence to that little antique. OK, maybe that's a little melodramatic, but read on, it gets worse.
I hadn't thought about that gun or those interesting times in decades but, as fate would have it, yesterday, while perusing the offerings at the local sporting goods store, I spotted something vaguely familiar, way down on the bottom shelf of the gun case. Wedged unceremoniously between a couple of those whizzbang black autos everybody seems to love nowadays, there it was, a nickel plated Iver Johnson .32, looking forlorn, like an orphan, surrounded by all those shiny new alloy and polymer tactical zombie killers. It followed me home and is now resting comfortably in my gun safe, no longer an orphan, and loved every bit as much as its bigger, more powerful brothers and sisters. No longer forlorn, but proud, like the "little engine that could" or that tugboat from the Disney song, or a tiny terrier who thinks she's a Doberman. In keeping with the "tradition" established above by its predecessor, it won't ever be fired. There's no need. It's serving its purpose as a reminder of an interesting chapter in my life.
I'm telling you all this so some day when you open that safe and see the precious little beast you won't wonder why on earth the old man bought that ugly looking thing. You just needed to know the history, and maybe you can get some mileage out of the story over a beer with your buddies some day.
Love,
Dad
And so began my long and storied career as a gun toting keeper of the peace, at least that is, the peace surrounding my young, fragile body. The historic firearm in question was a nickel plated Iver Johnson 3rd Model Safety Hammerless revolver (a mouthful, if not quite a handful). Chambered in .32 S&W caliber (a slightly larger bullet than a .22), it was manufactured sometime around the 1930's and yes, that was old, even when I was a kid. The five rounds of ammo in the cylinder were all corroded and green. I spent a week's pay at a surplus store for a nice leather holster (undoubtedly worth more than the gun) where the little revolver happily resided until I eventually returned it at the end of my employment. I never fired that gun or even drew it from the holster. Whether or not its presence ever had any deterrent effect on a would-be assailant will forever remain a mystery. Who knows, you might actually owe your existence to that little antique. OK, maybe that's a little melodramatic, but read on, it gets worse.
I hadn't thought about that gun or those interesting times in decades but, as fate would have it, yesterday, while perusing the offerings at the local sporting goods store, I spotted something vaguely familiar, way down on the bottom shelf of the gun case. Wedged unceremoniously between a couple of those whizzbang black autos everybody seems to love nowadays, there it was, a nickel plated Iver Johnson .32, looking forlorn, like an orphan, surrounded by all those shiny new alloy and polymer tactical zombie killers. It followed me home and is now resting comfortably in my gun safe, no longer an orphan, and loved every bit as much as its bigger, more powerful brothers and sisters. No longer forlorn, but proud, like the "little engine that could" or that tugboat from the Disney song, or a tiny terrier who thinks she's a Doberman. In keeping with the "tradition" established above by its predecessor, it won't ever be fired. There's no need. It's serving its purpose as a reminder of an interesting chapter in my life.
I'm telling you all this so some day when you open that safe and see the precious little beast you won't wonder why on earth the old man bought that ugly looking thing. You just needed to know the history, and maybe you can get some mileage out of the story over a beer with your buddies some day.
Love,
Dad
