Journal 1: Prologue

While this series will serve as an ongoing update on our activities, I think some context will help.

I grew up in a house without guns. Not from any fear or opposition that I can recall. I don't remember them being mentioned. My much older brother did come home in his 20's to save on bills so he could bang out a degree. At that time he brought along a pair of SKS rifles he tucked into the back of the front closet. I was 12 or 13 when I bumbled into them, unloaded and locked open. I remember being only vaguely curious and asked where they came from. Answered, I went about my business. 

It wasn't until years later, at the age of 24, that I actually shot anything. A friend had invited us to her family's farm and while the main attractions were moonshine and horse riding, her boyfriend did keep two Mosins on the property.  I opted for helping with horses while others went to shoot. Our party wrapped first so I wandered out to meet the rest.  They were just walking back but were excited to have me shoot and so we marched back out to the far side of, frankly, everyting. The sun was already setting and the light going fast so I didn't have much time to learn more than point and pull.  I should mention my host neglected hearing protection so I was given an M38 carbine and a set of Sony ear buds; I tucked the extra wire in my shirt pocket.

It wasn't until I was crouched there on my knee, rifle leveled across a small pond at a dirt embankment 100 yards out with no real target, that I had no idea what I was doing. Hadn't he said this gun was from the 40's? Do guns last that long? I had heard its rumble from half a mile away, how loud will it be? Will it kick me? Explode outright? Am I holding it right? How much faith can I put in a man who just handed me ear buds? As the tension and doubt rose, I squeezed the trigger slowly, just out pacing my nerves.

There was a reddit thread the other day asking people for the moment their lives were divided in half. The great "before" and "after." The question is too hard for me to answer easily. I have known the insecurity of sudden heartbreak after years of love, the ghostly sense of loss of a father died while I was away at college, the helplessness of watching my mother struggle and succomb to cancer, also the triumphs of the driver's license, having a sailing instructor telling me I am fine to navigate the weaving path out to open water past $2m yachts alone, the first day of stable riding on a motorcycle, first apartment alone, first house. I am sure there will be more and that you all have your own to add. But each of these is just a part of one or more facets to a life lived. So no one can divide a whole person into two complete halves.

But a single round of 7.62 came close. It was sudden, faster than any action I had ever known to that day. Of course I had heard "split second" but here I had actually split one. In the fading light a ball of fire erupted in front of me and was gone. I saw no sign of the bullet in flight and instead an instant flick of dirt, a fist full tossed from the opposite bank of the pond, revealed its path retroactively. There had been a shove at my shoulder, but not even so strong as the casual, friendly pull of a friend grabbing your attention. 

What really stood out, however, was the roar. It belted instantly into the ether. Like a bubble rising unseen to the surface, popping into existence wholly formed and furious. It filled every inch of the open land around me and echoed back from the tree-lined edges. In my chest there had played a single note, low and heavy as if I were a bass string sharply plucked.

And then it was over. I smelled the curious mix of surplus powder and primer in the air. Tart and sweet.  With the last echoes of the shot fading the rest of the world snapped back into focus. The breeze against my skin, the rising sound of crickets, and last of all I became, slowly, aware of the voices and laughter of my friends. In a word many of you might know: zanshin.

A week later the hostess was still flustered by the presence of the guns and so my friend sold me the pair for a song. I gave the 91/30 to my roommate, thinking I would never need two rifles. The M38 I still have.

Sitting in the corner of my room it filled my imagination.  I had to know the  meaning of every glyph, how every part fit and functioned, who made this thing and why this way? Then there were the differences. So many designs to do the same damned thing. Before it had seemed simple but nuance emerged. Months later I bought and Enfield from a pawn shop.  The pattern was set.