Sporting Classics Digital

May/June 2017

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I had the good fortune to pass my formative years in a tiny town. Nestled against the foothills of Washington's Cascade Range, Chelan was just far enough from the sins of Seattle to be mired in something of a 1950s' time warp. We boys hunted and fished, played multiple sports, and worked summer jobs to keep us in pizza, gas, and ammunition. Standard school attire was a white T-shirt, blue jeans, and a letterman's jacket. The local girls were nice, and holding hands with one of them was a sign of mutual commitment to the relationship. Thinking back, I suppose there was a provisional awareness of the '60s and '70s. After all, I clearly remember one highlight of my 1968 summer: "hippie watching" in the evenings along main street after my parents and I had gone to the A&W for ice cream cones. Other locals often took in the show, including one older gentleman who occasionally parked next to us. He drove a station wagon liberated from the local junkyard, complete with bullet holes. It backfired with a vengeance and seemed to Adventures by dwight vAn brunt Gun shows make me lauGh and cry at the same time. propel itself along by discharging a contrail of thick blue smoke. The interior had been completely stripped, so he captained his conveyance from a folding lawn chair. Once parked and after visibility had more or less returned, Mr. Lawn Chair would remove the multitasking piece of furniture, walk a few steps, and place it squarely on the sidewalk. Then, with his old dog roped to one of the chair's legs, he would stare down every longhair that barefooted past his reviewing station. If one of them caught his glare and foolishly attempted to make peace via conversation, the dog would enthusiastically growl him away. I'm not suggesting that I was raised in an overly sheltered environ, but watching those hippies jump and then slink away was the very essence of entertainment. In truth, it still makes me laugh out loud today. Most of my friends chose to matriculate at a state college not all that far from home. After all, why would anyone want to be more than a couple of hours away from hard-learned fishing and hunting spots? This particular college was in close proximity to Spokane, a fact that inadvertently but most certainly redirected the trajectory of my life. Had this not been the case, I would have no doubt become the worst schoolteacher in the history of the NEA—which would take some doing. Here's what happened. One of my hometown buddies asked me to split the gas to Spokane and go with him to a gun show. I'd never heard of such an event, having theretofore assumed that all guns came from either the local hardware store or the Sears catalog. "You'll love it," he was quick to point out. "It fills the main building at the fairgrounds. There will be thousands of guns, along with just about everything else that has to do with shooting and hunting. You just walk around, buying and selling or even trading! It'll be fun." I went with him and found my Valhalla. G un shows, at least back then, were friendly gatherings of like-minded folks dedicated to sharing well-researched information on fine and possibly historic firearms, preserving the steeped traditions of sportsmanship and screwing each other out of every penny possible. 148 • S P O R T I N G C L A S S I C S

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