The Best Kind of Father's Day Present

Autumn Marie (Haeberle) Mulverhill

Last night, Sheryl and I said our family prayers preparatory to reading scriptures and some other reading. Before I could get to the word Amen, there was a good, sharp knock at the front door. I thought of picking up the walking stick that I made a couple of years ago as I walked through the house. Sheryl had left the front porch light on earlier and I had dutifully turned it off before going to bed. Now, in the little bit of light from the street, I could see a small, female form with long hair through the beveled glass in the door.





Agressively, I flipped the porch light back on and cautiously opened the door, peaking around it to see who might be with the disarmingly feminine form visible through the glass. She smirked at me, watching closely for my reaction. That reaction was as natural as anything I've evcr done, because it was one of genuine "shock and awe" (to use a presidential expression.)





My little girl had come all the way up from Winnetka, CA several days early, just to surprise me for Father's day. I couldn't stop telling her, during our prolonged hug, how happy I was to see her. Little Aubs had come to see me, and life, which had seemed pretty rotten earlier in the day, was suddenly full of bright promise and joy and hope.

What Am I Doing Wrong?

Reasonably sane Dad/Uncle Jim pretending that his friend's BB gun is a real firearm.

I have been trying to make light of this Alzheimer's thing, but only Clark answered or made comment on my last post, so I guess everyone's getting all weirded out about the disease. I am convinced that, if I keep taking all the goodies I've been given, most of you won't notice a difference in me at all for a long time, if ever. In other words, I'll be just as annoying or delightful as you've always found me. But I'm doing something wrong, because everyone seems to be afraid to comment any more.

Everything I've said in the last two posts is correct as far as I know it, but we're dealing with very long periods of time here. Although it didn't strike me as funny, what the doctor said about a stroke or a heart attack taking me out before the Alzheimer's gets that far is probably quite true. I could be around for many years, sending out annoying emails, dumb jokes, and politically incorrect proclamations.

In other words, the disease is virtually stopped in its progress at this point, and it's perfectly alright to treat me as you always have. In the case of virtually all of you, that was pretty good.

Now, does anyone have a good .45-70 or .223 they'd like to let go for cheap? I have years and years of recreational shooting ahead of me, and I'd like to get back at it.

What I Did for Food

S&W Model 624, Stainless .44 Special

A couple of them are shown twice here. Many are not shown at all. I just felt like illustrating to anyone who might care why I felt so sorry for myself when I lost my job and we moved to Boise and I sold all my guns to help keep us in groceries.

I think there was an old song called What I did for Love. I suppose we could all write our own versions of that one. But what I did for food actually hurt me and made me proud at the same time. I've been acquainted with some men who would not have done this. But how could they not? Nothing beats our obligation to do what we can to take care of our families. I suspect there are some who think I'm failing in that obligation right now. Shrug. They might be right. But on one occasion in my life, when it mattered, I did the right thing. It had taken me about thirty years to collect them all and I had sacrificed other things sometimes to get them. But I sold them off in ones and twos until they were all gone.

No, it's not that big a sacrifice. I didn't have to give up my freedom or get shot at or brave a cholera infested slum to get the food for us. Sheryl was doing more than her share, too. But these photos represent just a few of the things that I lost when I lost my job. I also lost a lot of self-respect and confidence. But you can't show those things in photographs.

Just so he knows I haven't sold his stuff, there are one or two of Joseph's things in these old photographs. They didn't go out with the rest. And Grandpa Hartsell's old 16 gauge side-by-side was never abandoned. But these pictures probably represent about one third of what I lost. Some will sympathize with that. Thank you. Others will say, "Why does a person need all those nasty old guns anyway?" I doubt I'll ever be able to communicate a satisfactory answer to that most unsatisfactory question. If the beauty, the grandeur, and the History represented by such things doesn't jump right out at you, there's probably little I could say to engender that kind of aesthetic sense in your heart.

But I haven't given up hope. I'll probably never have as many, but I have four good ones now. And I have hope that the number will grow at least a little by the time I leave them to younger folks to enjoy.

Ruger Mark II, .22 target pistol, 10" bull barrel.

Interarms Mk X Mauser, .30-06. Marlin 60, .22 LR. Ruger 10-22 (Joseph's)



1895 Marlin in .45-70 Gov't. Ruger All Weather .22 Mag. Thompson/Center Contender Carbine in .223 Rem.



Cheap old 20 gauge that I refinished.
1896 Swedish Mauser, mfg. 1915.
Oberndorf Mauser .22 target rifle. (sniff)

Italian clone of Colt Single-Action Army, .44 Special.

Norinco (Chinese) clone of 1936 Olympics Walther .22 Pistol.

Ruger Mk II (again)

S&W 624 (again)

Glock 23 in .40 S&W

Italian clone for CVA of Colt 1862 Pocket Police which was issued to Union military police during the Civil War.

Italian clone of 1853 Enfield (British armory) .58 caliber rifle-musket.