Post by Fireman860 on Jul 27, 2014 21:46:30 GMT -5
When I was a little boy, I firmly believed that my dad was a super hero. He was a highly decorated Vietnam Vet, and if something had a trigger on it, he knew how to shoot it, take it apart, clean it, put it back together and shoot it, again. His pride and joy was his U.S. Army-issue Colt 1911A-1 that he had had fully chromed. Anything bigger than an atom was a target (cans, leaves, sticks, chunks of asphalt, etc), and if it was a target, he could hit it. We lived out in the country, so I didn't have many friends. To be honest, aside from Short-Round (who was imaginary), and a stuffed Pink Panther, Dad was my only friend. So to say that his interests became mine is an understatement, and of all our shared interests, our favorite by far was our love of guns. So I grew up to be a collector of (mainly) handguns. So many hours were shared with Dad looking for rare finds, and we always had the same ritual when it came to new purchases: I would shoot the first round, he the second, and (later), my wife the third, and we would each keep the first brass. There was one handgun I could never find, though: my favorite Indy gun, the Webley MK VI! (I found out later that he mainly used the WG, but the damage had been done, and my quest had begun.) Dad and I came across 2 in recent years, but never at a time when we could buy or trade for them. So the quest went on.
On June 30th, 2014 at 0830, my world collapsed around me. My best friend on Earth, my dad, died. There are no words to describe the grief that has enveloped me every moment since. Though I know that sacred ordinances will bind us together as father and son for Eternity, the pain of this mortal loss was almost too great a burden for me to bear. Yet, I tried to distract myself by doing the things that made me feel close to my dad: sitting in his chair, sitting at the end of his bed, wearing the suit he left me, talking to his empty desk chair, field stripping and cleaning his Colt like he taught me to do as a child, and so on. Of course the one thing that made me feel closest to him was doing what we loved doing together the most: going to look at guns. Suddenly, finding a Webley became oddly and inexpressibly important to me, and I didn't really know why. I decided that two of my less-loved guns were worth one old, rusty Webley, and since I had only seen old rusty Webleys, I figured that was what I would find, if I found one at all. So I started calling around.
When I found a Webley by a stroke of luck, there was some complication in making the trade. The owner had sent it out to be cleaned, and was waiting for it to come back. So I waited. And waited. And waited. And prayed. And fasted. In a week, this Webley became an obsession. I needed it. Yes, it sounds trivial and worldly, and trite, but grief is nothing if not the enemy of rationality. I didn't just want the Webley. I needed it. I NEEDED to feel close to Dad, I needed to KNOW that he was watching out for me; I needed to have just ONE good day... Honestly, I went a little nuts.
The praying and fasting didn't work. I figured it was because I was fasting and praying over a gun. But Dad had always said, "Nothing is too great or too small to take to God in prayer." So why was I still Webley-less? I figured the guy that was cleaning the gun had probably stolen it or sold it or lost it. I was about to give up and sink into an even deeper depression, having been seemingly deprived of my one good day. Maybe there were no more good days to come. Or maybe I was being a big baby (which looking back even a couple of days later, I have been being a big baby about this), but surely there was something that I was supposed to. LEARN from this. That's when I had this strange prompting. "Ask Dad." This wasn't a lesson in patience, or faith, or even sanity. It was a chance for me to feel my Father's mercy and my dad's loving presence. So I did just that: I asked Dad.
Now some of you will call me nuts. Some of you will say "he no nuts, he's CRAZY!" But I said, right out loud, "Dad, I don't know if you can hear me, or if you even have any influence over things like this, but please help me out. Please make it so that I can get that Webley in my hand tomorrow. And I don't care if it's perfect, but let it be perfect for me. I love you, Dad."
The next day, as I had done every day for a week, I called the guy and asked if the Webley had come in. Expecting a "no, not yet," I instead lit up with a happy excitement that I had forgotten the feel of when he replied "yep! Come on in and take a look at it!" Now the story would have ended there, but as you recall, I was expecting to see a Webley that wasn't perfect, but perfect for me. Instead, I walked into the store to find an unshaved MK VI that looked like it had come out of the factory the day before. It has no importer's marks, is a military model (I know bc it has no caliber marks), has a high-polish blue (which is probably a re-bluing, as it is most definitely a military model), and has deep threads. In short, it is not merely prefect for me, but is nearly perfect in general. It is, in short, breath-taking!
So my Dad is still helping me out. He's still taking time to share things with me. He wrote a letter for us to read in case this day ever came. It outlined what all we should do, and how much he loves us. There is a post-script to the letter. In it, he says "Barry, you are my best friend. I'll talk to our Heavenly Father about getting us a range built, and two of the best handguns ever made." Well, Dad, I'm holding onto your Colt, and I'll spend the next 75 years or so mastering this Webley. So on the morning of the First Resurrection, if you hear gunfire, that'll just be me and my Superhero best friend putting a few rounds down our custom-made range, and one of the guns we'll be using is my "brand new" 1916 Webley MK VI: the one Dad helped me get just to show me that he's still around... Thanks, Dad. I love you.
On June 30th, 2014 at 0830, my world collapsed around me. My best friend on Earth, my dad, died. There are no words to describe the grief that has enveloped me every moment since. Though I know that sacred ordinances will bind us together as father and son for Eternity, the pain of this mortal loss was almost too great a burden for me to bear. Yet, I tried to distract myself by doing the things that made me feel close to my dad: sitting in his chair, sitting at the end of his bed, wearing the suit he left me, talking to his empty desk chair, field stripping and cleaning his Colt like he taught me to do as a child, and so on. Of course the one thing that made me feel closest to him was doing what we loved doing together the most: going to look at guns. Suddenly, finding a Webley became oddly and inexpressibly important to me, and I didn't really know why. I decided that two of my less-loved guns were worth one old, rusty Webley, and since I had only seen old rusty Webleys, I figured that was what I would find, if I found one at all. So I started calling around.
When I found a Webley by a stroke of luck, there was some complication in making the trade. The owner had sent it out to be cleaned, and was waiting for it to come back. So I waited. And waited. And waited. And prayed. And fasted. In a week, this Webley became an obsession. I needed it. Yes, it sounds trivial and worldly, and trite, but grief is nothing if not the enemy of rationality. I didn't just want the Webley. I needed it. I NEEDED to feel close to Dad, I needed to KNOW that he was watching out for me; I needed to have just ONE good day... Honestly, I went a little nuts.
The praying and fasting didn't work. I figured it was because I was fasting and praying over a gun. But Dad had always said, "Nothing is too great or too small to take to God in prayer." So why was I still Webley-less? I figured the guy that was cleaning the gun had probably stolen it or sold it or lost it. I was about to give up and sink into an even deeper depression, having been seemingly deprived of my one good day. Maybe there were no more good days to come. Or maybe I was being a big baby (which looking back even a couple of days later, I have been being a big baby about this), but surely there was something that I was supposed to. LEARN from this. That's when I had this strange prompting. "Ask Dad." This wasn't a lesson in patience, or faith, or even sanity. It was a chance for me to feel my Father's mercy and my dad's loving presence. So I did just that: I asked Dad.
Now some of you will call me nuts. Some of you will say "he no nuts, he's CRAZY!" But I said, right out loud, "Dad, I don't know if you can hear me, or if you even have any influence over things like this, but please help me out. Please make it so that I can get that Webley in my hand tomorrow. And I don't care if it's perfect, but let it be perfect for me. I love you, Dad."
The next day, as I had done every day for a week, I called the guy and asked if the Webley had come in. Expecting a "no, not yet," I instead lit up with a happy excitement that I had forgotten the feel of when he replied "yep! Come on in and take a look at it!" Now the story would have ended there, but as you recall, I was expecting to see a Webley that wasn't perfect, but perfect for me. Instead, I walked into the store to find an unshaved MK VI that looked like it had come out of the factory the day before. It has no importer's marks, is a military model (I know bc it has no caliber marks), has a high-polish blue (which is probably a re-bluing, as it is most definitely a military model), and has deep threads. In short, it is not merely prefect for me, but is nearly perfect in general. It is, in short, breath-taking!
So my Dad is still helping me out. He's still taking time to share things with me. He wrote a letter for us to read in case this day ever came. It outlined what all we should do, and how much he loves us. There is a post-script to the letter. In it, he says "Barry, you are my best friend. I'll talk to our Heavenly Father about getting us a range built, and two of the best handguns ever made." Well, Dad, I'm holding onto your Colt, and I'll spend the next 75 years or so mastering this Webley. So on the morning of the First Resurrection, if you hear gunfire, that'll just be me and my Superhero best friend putting a few rounds down our custom-made range, and one of the guns we'll be using is my "brand new" 1916 Webley MK VI: the one Dad helped me get just to show me that he's still around... Thanks, Dad. I love you.