Heimbuch - And now we shall do manly things: discovering my manhood through the great (and not-so-great) American hunt

For Rebecca, the love of my life

Well, you sure do have an interesting way of looking at the world.

Jim Heimbuch

Contents

W e were just finishing packing up the car to head back to our place in Cincinnati when Dad asked me to go downstairs with him.

When I was young and my dad would call me down into his workshop, it usually meant trouble. Maybe my grades had been less stellar than I had led him to believe. Or maybe I had stretched the truth a bit about completing my chores. Either way, a trip into the workshop with Dad seldom resulted in warm, fuzzy father-son bondingmore likely it was a disappointed glare and a good long talking-to.

But that was then. Now that Im married and have three children, visits to the workshop usually involve a woodworking project with the kids or the never-ending retrieval of my college belongings that have been stored there for more than a decadeyou never know when that freshman term paper on Chaucer might come in handy during a job interview.

I followed Dad down the stairs past the stuffed northern pike and the bearskin mounted on the wall. Ive never been comfortable with the bear. The fish is one thing. I grew up fishing, and while I may have chosen a different pose than the curled-and-about-to-strike one opted for by the taxidermist, I recognize Dads pride in that particular fish. Theres also a tasteful piece of driftwood. I like that very much.

The bear, on the other hand, gives me the creeps. Its all soft fur, claws, and teeth. And the eyesI swear its looking at me, pleading with me to be taken down from the wall of the dim basement. Put me in a ski lodge, its saying to me. I want bikini models lying on me. I want to be the set of a late-night Cinemax movie. Please!

Dad, I said, we have to get going. I dont want to get home too late. What do you need?

I want to give you something, he said.

What?

Just something.

Fine, I thought, let Dad be mysterious. Since my dad doesnt often veer toward the sentimental, I figured it was something practical. A coupon for Home Depot, perhaps, or an extra set of hex wrenches.

Instead, Dad reached into the rafters and pulled down the keys to the gun safe, which was mounted on a wall in the back corner of the workshop. He unlocked it without a word and pulled out a twelve-gauge Winchester over-under shotgun and handed it to me without much fanfare or flourish.

Whats this? I asked rather dimly.

Its a twelve-gauge Winchester over-under shotgun, Dad said.

Yes, but what is it for? I asked.

For shooting.

Dad has always had a way with words.

No, I said as I tried to clarify, why are you giving it to me?

I just thought you might appreciate it, he said.

I must admit, it was a beautiful gun. The deep-brown wood, the dark-gray barrels and brushed silver-colored parts. I liked the way it felt in my handsits heft and size, the particular angularity of the grip and stock.

I have a certain familiarity with guns. I understand their basic workings, having grown up in a gun-loving extended family, and can appreciate a beautiful gun when I see one. But dont confuse familiarity with comfort. Although I have fired more guns than most of my suburban peers, I have never fully immersed myself in the shooting and hunting culture of my family. My dad is a hunter. Hes killed deer and bear and all sorts of birds. But even his bounty pales in comparison to that of his brothers. My uncles are the kinds of guys who spend rainy Saturday mornings watching worn VHS tapes of Alaskan hunting adventures (one in particular involving the downing of a wolverine seems to be the favorite). They spend their vacations hunting, plan for their trips all year long, and have passed their enthusiasm on to their own sons, my cousins.

This moment, however, marks the first time in my life Dad has made an overt gesture to welcome me into the fold. That I didnt ask for a gun, and am entirely too old to be receiving my first one, doesnt seem to have factored into his thinking. Its as if my dad just woke up that morning and decided it was time for me to be armed. I imagined him standing over the sink, a fresh cup of black coffeehe only ever drinks it black and told me that Id better learn to do the same as you never know when someone might be out of creamin hand, and with a manly stretch groaning, Im going to give Craig a gun today. Yup, thats what Im going to do.

My dad is not a man who prides himself on his possessions. He always taught us that doing was better than having, that a man is measured by the sum total of his experiences not his net worth. He does not have a large collectioneight guns totalbut this is the only one I remember him buying. He showed it to me right after he bought it, holding it up in front of him, examining it under the bare bulb hanging from the workshop ceiling like a museum curator holding an ancient relic.

I always assumed it was his favorite. Hes used it maybe twice, so giving it to me was beyond generous; it was confounding.

Dad, I said, dont take this the wrong way, but you arent dying, are you?

No, he said with a chuckle.

You sure? No cancer? Heart disease? Diabetes?

Nope, he said. Im fine.

Because if youve had a myocardial infarction, you can tell me, I said. Or if youre going blind...

This went on for ten whole minutesme running through every debilitating disease and condition I could think of only to be reassured time and again that he was in perfect health and that everything was in order. No, he and Mom did not have a suicide pact and, to the best of his knowledge, there was no mob contract out on either him or me.

I remained incredulous.

Youre just coming to an age, he finally said, when you might get interested in these kinds of things, and I wanted you to have this.

Id never owned a gunnever even had the thought of owning one. Sure, Ive enjoyed shooting at soda cans and paper targets in my uncles yard, both as a kid and as an adult. But shooting was a vacation thing for me, something I did while visiting my relatives in Iowa. Sort of like people from Kansas who spend their holidays skiing in Coloradoits an activity so tied to a specific place in my mind as to not be considered anywhere else.

So the idea of having a gun was completely foreign. I didnt have the slightest idea of what to do with it. I was excited (who isnt when receiving an unexpected gift?), but I also had some trepidation. Where would I keep it? Its not as if I had bought a gun safe in anticipation of the day when I might randomly be given a shotgun. It was as if he had just handed me the keys to a bulldozer. It was great and exciting, but using it would require an adjustment to my day-to-day life.

Not dwelling on the why of the situation any longer, Dad launched into a lengthy list of howshow to take the gun apart and put it back together, how to clean it and maintain it, how to store the ammunition and how to use the trigger guards. He covered so much ground so quickly, I should have been taking notes.