article and photos by Erin Woodward
J.B. was a mystery to me. His features darkened like fine leather. A faded anchor tattooed on his left forearm. I remember little of how his voice sounded. Age had cornered him, his strength and heartache left floating across vast seas. His memory chased by enemy planes diving at his ship, hot death screaming from on high. He spoke little of such events.
I remember his fishing cabin. The rooms perfumed slightly in mildew. Rusted hooks and tackle replaced with new jigs, weights and rods. Odd colored bird feathers sprinkled on the coffee table, found arrowheads filling a coffee can. A black cast iron stove provided heat. Crappie and Coors his normal diet. Visiting him felt like the requisite duty of a grandson. We spoke little, and caught less.
The day came when J.B. moved in with us. He was a bit balder and rounder in the middle. His anchor tattoo now deeply faded. Ensure had replaced Coors. PBS was regularly on the television. No more crappie would be hooked. No more lines to be cast. His friends were gone.
On a visit home from college, I saw J.B. smile. To see such an action was like finding gold. The smile was not for my arrival, but for the collection of rifles and shotguns laid out on the kitchen table. I knew a man who fished. Not a man who peppered birds and brought down whitetail deer. The memories too burdensome to shoulder. What then became my father’s, has now become my own.
The weight of cold steel rests easy now in my palms. The once unknown of hunting has become a familiar place as time has passed. Ducks and quail etched on either side of the shotgun’s receiver bring a smile to my face. I knew little of the man it belonged to. Our commonalities as distant as the setting sun and rising moon. But, now, this piece of his life has become mine to pass along. I am the caretaker of his memories afield. The 1947 Ithaca found a new home.
Time and use have bested the smooth steel of the Ithaca. Worry was first noticed after a bird hunt. Sadness confirmed after an early season duck hunt. Deep cracks, growing with each use, pushed down the stock from where wood meets the receiver. My eyes wanted to ignore the obvious. My heart wanted to stay afield. The shotgun in its quiet mannerism signaled retirement.
The balance of hunting season passed. Hopeful hunts transitioned to simple walks afield, my heart not wanting to worsen the aged wooden stock. So came the time to seek help.
Near my home and down the road a bit sits a local gunsmith. The shop dressed in simple brick doesn’t harken boldness of character. It calls for simplicity, a working man’s ethos. And, so, it was on a quiet day in February when weather hinted closer to spring than it did to the chilled winds of winter, I walked in. A television glowed, playing on repeat a hunting show. New and old shotguns lined the wall. Each tagged and marked with a price, hopeful to find a new home. A local upland bird group met there monthly. A robust fellow sat behind the counter, minding his business clicking away on the out-of-date calculator. I approached in quiet hope.
Exchanging simple pleasantries, I asked my question. “The shotgun is old. There are cracks on both sides of the stock near the receiver. Can you help?”
Slipping on his readers, his hand fidgeted with a silver object, shiny and oval in shape. He looked up at me and back to the shotgun, fingering the object like a poker player and his stack of chips. He looked down and smiled. “I’ll be back,” he muttered in a hushed tone as he drifted off into the far reaches of the store.
I waited, and then waited a bit longer.
“What do you know about this shotgun?” he asked. His words spoke with a bold proclamation, as if he knew something I didn’t, but should. I spouted off the general rhetoric of how it was once my grandfather’s and that it was a 1947 Ithaca 12-gauge.
He nodded in simple agreement. “Yes, yes, very good.” He pulled out a wooden stock. One that was a close match, but unstained and void of character or life.
We fell into a simple rhythm of conversation. He looked over the shotgun and I pondered my next move. A move weighted on my shoulders like a yoke.
“Don’t do it.” The man’s words were quiet and simple. Direct and with perfect urgency. “You don’t want to ruin this memory.”
My brow furrowed in confusion. His hand once again fidgeted with the silvery brass object. He laid the piece on the table. The brass object stared back at me. Its ornate pattern oddly familiar. A blank space separates either side. “Look here.” He rotated my Ithaca around. Then it hit me. My eyes see a perfect match. The ornate piece fastened to the bottom of the grip. The old timer smiled. “I told the fellas in the back about your shotgun.” His smile widened.
We chatted for a bit longer, both of us coming to the conclusion that to replace the entire stock, though doable and practical, would ruin the shotgun. To do so would remove the character and all of its beautiful flaws.
The man smiled once more. “You don’t know this and you should. That shotgun was bought by your grandfather, from us, 77 years ago.” Words fumbled in my mouth. He was patient with my inept ability to put a proper sentence together.
Instead, he shared his own conclusion. The silver brass at the bottom of the grip had been part of the company since nearly its opening all those decades before – the original store location my late grandfather had walked in and bought this very Ithaca so many years ago. My feet were cemented to the floor. My heart raced. It’d been 77 years since the Ithaca had been walked back into its original home.
J.B. died on a June day. I didn’t cry at his funeral. I didn’t know him. But the shotgun now rests in quietness next to a few other joyful memories of his. It’s odd how an object can connect people together. Each fall, I’ve brought out the Ithaca and wondered of his stories. I’ve envisioned chilled days and worn-out Mackinaw coats. Hot coffee and forlorn leaves dotting the ground. His favorite Louis L’Amour book accompanying him afield. He shot and missed birds. I have, too. We’ve both seen and heard the flush of wings. Paused and found joy in the quiet moments known to only hunters. It’ll be hard to leave the Ithaca stored away. There will be no more birds. No rabbits, ducks, grouse or woodcock to shoot. On well-lit days, or days when the iron-gray clouds of Kansas press down on me from the heavens, I may still go on long slow walks with the Ithaca, wondering if he, too, walked this same path in search of his dinner. I’ll pause for a deserved rest and feel the design below the hand grip and smile. A piece of me will think of the man I didn’t know. The cold steel will sting my hand and I’ll whisper a few thankful words in his memory. I hope to honor him. He deserved as much.
Erin Woodward lives and hunts across America’s heartland. His work has appeared online and in magazines. He’s been writing since 2018.
