The BB Gun

Day two of the Family History Writing Challenge 2/2/15

** NOTE: The italicized font is creative non-fiction. Based upon the stories of my mother and uncle it is my creative writing of their memories. **

“Call your uncle, he’ll remember more,” was the encouragement from my mother. “Read him what you've already written, so he’ll understand what you're trying to do.”  So a long distance phone call was placed and an ever familiar voice came on the line. “Hi Unc, mom wanted me to read what I've written, To help you understand what I’m doing.” After reading, I encouraged him to share, to which he was now more willing. Stories of school, and visiting the local candy store were offered. But, then came the story with a vision … “I still have the BB gun my father gave me; it hangs downstairs on a pair of deer antlers he mounted. My father was a taxidermist, you know…” Over the line, I could hear the distance of the years melt as he spoke and together we journeyed back to the side yard of the house in South Lubec, where a young boy waited to finally get to shoot his new gun.

Wells stood by as his father cocked the new Daisy Red Ryder BB gun with a click and took aim at the ball atop the flagpole. Pfft, registered the little rifle as a shot was fired. Click, Pfft, click, pfft another two rounds. Wells was attempting to wait patiently as his father declared the gun suitable for his son’s use. Already three other rifles had been taken back to the store as the sights were off. Being a consummate hunter, Wells’ father knew his way around a gun and was a stickler on good marksmanship. Wells had seen his father come home with a deer across his shoulders in the autumn. There was a big snowy owl his father had “stuffed” that he had shot before Wells was born. Even his mother had been known to don hunting gear, for there was a picture to prove it. “Alright son, this is a good gun; we’ll keep this one.” Wells was thrilled, he had his own gun! Looking similar to his father’s, Wells would improve his accuracy by shooting at paper targets.

 

“He still has his BB gun? Yes mom, I replied, he still has his BB gun, hanging on a pair of antlers your father mounted.

Family History Writing Challenge - Day 1

Originally written in 2012, mom encouraged me to make this my first post, to provide some context to the ensuing stories. I am pleased to report however, I did write 270 words today, but am not sharing that at this time. 

On February 17, 1927 my mother flew in with “Lucky Lindy.”  Calvin Coolidge was president and life in the town of Lubec was life as usual.  My grandparents lived in a rented “bungalow” just below the big church on the hill in town.  It wasn't until my mother was 6 or 7 years old the family moved to South Lubec.

Each summer my parents would return to Lubec twice or three times, traveling the same route from Connecticut.  As a child in the backseat with my grandmother, tales of life in Maine were exchanged to pass the time.  My grandmother had standard comments now ingrained in my psyche for time and memorial.  Belfast: There was store there associated with the one she worked at in Connecticut.  Ellsworth: “I remember when Cadillac Mountain burned, you could smell the smoke and it smoldered for months.”  Route 189 in Trescott: “Look at the skyline of spruce.”  West Lubec: “I remember walking to the water tower.”  And lest I forget, Number 9 Hill, where if a car could make it up the hill in high gear, it was a good car.

Although my mother left Lubec at age 14 upon the death of her father and moved with her mother and brother to Connecticut, her memories, along with my grandmother’s, compelled me to move to Maine.  I have lived over half my life in this wonderful state.  When asked if I would ever return “home” meaning Connecticut, my reply is “No.”  I blame this on my mother, who year after year inoculated me with “Fundy Fever.” 

This  is a compilation of those stories presented in a both factual and fictional manner.  The pictures painted for me as a child are the basis of what I am calling fiction or better, embellished.  While writing these memories, I would read each night to my mother what I had written that day, for she is my editor and fact checker.  Often these sessions yielded more information; I only hope this work of creative non-fiction clearly conveys the pictures she drew in my mind.

See you tomorrow - J