A Few More Old Friends That I Miss

Have you ever felt that you had a friendship with an object? A thing? A lifeless little noun that just lies there until YOU pick it up and cause it to do something? I suspect that one or two of you know what I mean. Maybe you've had a car or an item of clothing which gave you a feeling of comfort which other things of similar description were never able to give to you.

Not surprisingly, a number of my "thing" friends over the years have been books. Especially old books. The older, the better. I have a lot of books that have been around longer than I have, and that's saying something these days. My physical existence was not inflicted on this unsuspecting world until 1951. I just turned 58 two days ago. It feels surprisingly like 57.

I have a book that was given to me by a "professional investigator" in Italy named Stefano Ettore Pittigliani. He was a big, powerfully built fellow who always showed up to Church with two women, one on each arm. He took the discussions two or three times, but he'd never keep a baptismal appointment.

Stefano had charm, a virile voice, and money. Quite a lot of money, we thought. We never knew what he did for a living, but we knew that it was probably illegal, because he would never even give us a hint about its nature and he never went through with getting baptized. It was as though he loved the missionaries and all the Saints in the Brescia branch, but he didn't feel worthy or ready or prepared or something like that to join them and be one of them. We all loved him right back, too. He was a hero to some of us missionaries. He seemed to be everything that young men want to be. Or maybe not. Maybe he was just good at appearing to be what we all wanted to appear to be.

There were six of us in the city of Brescia. He brought us all wrist watches one night. They were very up-to-date (for 1971) in there appearance and their multi-functional abilities. We all expressed real gratitude for them. I have only the slightest memory of being bothered momentarily by its tendency to pull the hair on my wrist and to slide around my then ultra-skinny wrist so that the face was never there to be seen.

A few days later, Stefano drove all the way back to Brescia from his home town of Desenzano del Garda, a resort town on Lake Garda. He came all the way back to talk to me. "Ho notato," he announced in his flawless Italian, "che lei porta poco volentieri un orologio da polso." "I've noticed that you don't enjoy wearing a wrist watch." I started to stammer some polite denial, but he quickly produced a lovely box and put it in my hand. The pocket watch inside was too fine, too lovely, and too thin to be called elegant. It was exquisite. It was about like a silver dollar in size, color, shape, and dimensions. It came with its own fob. I never went anywhere without it after that.

Three years later, at the end of USAF Basic Military Training at Lackland AFB, TX, I was put into a "casual control squadron" for a few weeks until my school assignment would come up. I dropped that watch on the floor of the latrine there one day. It never ran again. But I kept it for years afterwards, because Stefano had given it to me.

Oh, yes! About the book he gave me. It is a biography of Napoleon Bonaparte, published in 1893. It was in Italian, of course. I have no idea how long it had been in his family; maybe from its first sale. I really don't know. But I get it out now and then, maybe twice a year, just to see the bold hand in which it was inscribed to me. He always treated me a little better than the other missionaries.

I spent my P-Day making a shadow box scene for him one time. Employing a shoe box, I colored the inside to look like a stormy night scene. Then, in one of those tiny Italian toy stores which were dimly lit and filled with charm and delight, I found a few medieval soldiers and one monk with his hands upraised. I glued the foot soldiers to the ground inside the box in attitudes of combat. Between them, but nearer the rear of the box, stood the old monastic.

When I gave it to him in my childish adoration, I pointed out the monk and said, "He's probably shouting 'Peace! Peace!' " Stefano shook his head, laughing quietly, and said, "No. Lui benedice le armi!" "No. He's blessing the weapons."

When I passed through Desenzano del Garda in 1992, I asked the manager of our hotel whether he knew Stefano. I was finally able to describe him well enough that the fellow showed unmistakable signs of knowing exactly who I was trying to find. But he wasn't a fan. He imitated Stefano's rather proud bearing and carriage, proving beyond all doubt that we were talking about the same man. But the guy didn't like Stefano (Italians aren't good at dissembling and don't usually try.) He said he'd heard that Stefano got married and moved to Genova. So I've never found him. I was twenty when I first knew him. I'm 58 now. How old would he be? In his seventies, surely.

Everyone knows that I love rifles. But a few handguns have charmed their way into my possession over the years. In an earlier blog I mentioned my Model 624 Smith & Wesson and my 1917 Smith & Wesson. They were more like friends or companions than mere tools. I miss them. I also miss two other revolvers. Oh, sure, autopistols are fun, fast, and practical. But revolvers have more history behind them and they lend themselves to an elegance that few self-loaders can manage.

Five years ago I needed to make sure my Last Will and Testament was all drawn up and in working order. Sheryl had hers done at the same time. Dale Thomson of Rexburg, an old high school friend and the former prosecutor for Madison County did the work. But, as is all too typical of our lives, money ran short when it came time to pay him. I called him up and offered him my Model 48 S&W in .22 WMR (Winchester Magnum Rimfire) revolver with it's looooooong 8 3/8" barrel. I explained to him how it felt like a natural extension of the hand and how numerous ground squirrels could testify (if they were still around to do so) of its power and accuracy. I told him truthfully that some of those tiny mammals had been 30 yards distant when I unleashed it in their direction. He said to bring it on down to the office. My debt was paid. But I've never stopped missing it.

Lastly, let me speak of a revolver I only owned for maybe six months. We had just moved to Boise after I'd lost the job teaching at Madison. We took all my retirement out in one lump so we could live comfortably while I looked for another teaching position which never came. It's not good to have that much money ready to hand all the time. We bought a car. With one check. We went to the restaurant too often. We went crazy for a while.

One day I stopped in at the now defunct Shapel's Gun Shop in Boise, a third or fourth generation landmark. When its last owner died very young of cancer, the governor attended his funeral! There, under the glass, was the sweetest little scaled-down Single-Action Army with a 3 1/2" barrel and a bird's head grip. It was chambered in .38 Special. The blue was highly polished, the frame nicely color-case hardened, and the little grips a shiny, dark Italian hardwood of some kind. It was about $300. Years of denying myself things had come to a screeching halt in recent weeks. I knew that I should have it, because no one else would appreciate it as much as I. I paid cash, filled out Ted Kennedy's little form, and headed for the door.

It felt so good in my hand! So right! It was no Olympic competition pistol, but it was plenty accurate. The sights were fixed, but I could and did file the top of the front sight to lift the point of impact to about where I wanted it at around 15 yards. Loading cartridges for it was easy and fun. It became my companion in my daily travels. When the money ran out, it was one of the first firearms to go, of course. But I remember it very fondly, rather like that girl with the long, red hair who took me to the Carpenters concert in '73. I don't remember her name, but I do recall the pleasant feeling of being in her calm, feminine presence. Some old friends are people. Some aren't.