As most of you know, I go
camping a lot. But before you get some romantic notions about my camping
style, I encourage you to read this short story by Pat McManus. It's called
Kid Camping and it pretty well sums up my style if not my appetite. Heck,
just buy one of his books. You'll learn more about my life than I want you
to. Those of you who have read Outdoor Life know Pat. Over the years, I've
seriously considered suing Mr. McManus for stealing my life events and
presenting them as his own. Way too many have hit awfully close to home.
Like the one about the black powder gun he built as a kid.
I had been visiting my cousin, JD, when he developed a sudden interest in
chemistry after our firecracker supply from the Fourth was exhausted . I
think this was the same year that we bought the hydrochloric acid for our
experiments in generating hydrogen for "lighter than air" craft. Most of
these "experiments" were trial balloons, so to speak, for other experiments
preformed as young adults and generally yielded the same results -- blowing
up in our faces. Children back then were praised for having an inquisitive
mind and most everything that we did as children in the late 50's, early
60's was regarded as a learning experience, although we kids regarded it as
merely surviving another day. And a lot of my learning experiences did
involve trips to the emergency room..They were builders of character or at
least a tough hide... if you survived. Now these same "experiments" would
get me incarcerated.
Our experiments in basic chemistry consisted of mainly trial and
error--mainly error, but we were soon happily laying blackpowder trails
across any fire ant hill that hadn't already been vacated due to our
continuous harassment with a variety of household weapons of mass
destruction. It didn't take long before boredom and "what if's" turned our
interest from homemade fireworks to projectile geometry.
That summer day we built our - get ready for the scary part-- First black
powder gun . Even at the tender age of 12, I knew we needed to develop our
concept in stages before moving into full scale production. Our first try
lacked the beauty and grace of a Kentucky flintlock, but was an interesting
first attempt using plumbing supplies and tools borrowed from my uncle while
he was at work. That being the best time to borrow things from him.
As a matter of fact, because he had driven to work earlier that morning
instead of catching a ride ended up saving what was eventually left of our
butts from still being grounded 38 years later. In the interest of
efficiency, we decided to speed up the process by combining several tests
involving powder amounts, fuse time, projectile spread, decibel levels,
recoil and such. Never ones to shirk safety, we used glass marbles as a test
load. The theory being, they would shatter on impact with the side of my
uncle's garage that we were using as a backstop.
We carried a heavy vise around the side of the garage to hold the "gun" or
maybe, slightly more precisely, small bore cannon, in position while we
fired it. Neither one of us would volunteer to hold it, having learned some
degree of prudence from previous "experiments" and watching Roadrunner
cartoons. Who says the old cartoons weren't educational?
When the acrid cloud of spent powder finally lifted, we realized we might
have paid a little more attention to our testing procedures. The marbles had
indeed disintegrated as planned, although not on impact. At least not on the
first wall. We stood gaping at the splintered hole through the garage wall
when a heavy hand landed on each of our shoulders and we were spun around to
face JD's next door neighbor, Mr. Clegg, whose mouth was furiously moving
but making no sound other than a strange loud ringing sound.
He proceeded to swat at our rears every other step as we headed for JD's
house. Periodically a dust cloud streamed like a jet''s contrail from the
seat of our pants at a particularly accurate swat. No mean feat on two kids
skilled in broken field parent dodging. You have to remember that in those
days if a neighbor or relative had to whup your butt, you got another one
from your mother for making the neighbor whup you in the first place. And
all the while, she would be yelling " just wait till your Dad gets home".
Fortunately for JD, once his mother was finished with us, he was mostly
through except for his dad getting "our attention" later. Unfortunately for
me, my mother wouldn't be picking me up till the next morning, giving my dad
plenty of time build up steam on "getting my attention".
© 2002 LCM3
Saturday, October 05, 2002
© LCM3
Rimfire at Idlehourwebs dot com
