Article and photos by Dave Bates
Alpheus Potts “Bud” Mitchell was a guy I didn’t know very well. Truth be told, I never made his acquaintance. Oh, we’ve hunted pheasants together nearly every Saturday morning of pheasant season for the last 30 years or so, but I never actually shook hands with the man. We didn’t eat breakfast together. We never exchanged a word in person. talk with him quite frequently these days as I scan the fields before me, scouting the terrain for our dogs and signs of “birdy” behavior. thank him often for letting me borrow his old Ithaca double barrel Flues and for the enjoyment it’s brought. I didn’t know what a great shotgun felt like until I shouldered his. By now you must be wondering if our ol’ pal Bates has been into the hooch as he sits at his gunning room desk banging out this week’s installment of all things outdoors? Let me assure you I haven’t. Allow me to remedy your understanding.
Bud Mitchell was my wife’s grandfather. Kelly’s pappa passed away when she was only 10, long before our courting years commenced. Bud was a great athlete, having played on some championship high school football teams in Greensburg during the early 1900s. Bud went off to World War I, serving as an army medic in France. Upon his return to the states, Bud began his series of careers as an entrepreneur: Maytag franchise owner, justice of the peace in Kennedy Township, Vim Pac dog food factory owner and, later, working with the American Kennel Club. He was a member of the Beagle Hall of Fame. When he departed this earth, he left behind a well-used shotgun. Although I never knew him, I think we might’ve gotten along well. Such was always the case with Kelly’s numerous uncles, given our common interest in firearms, all things outdoors and our favorite brand of beer: Cold.
Kelly and I had been married about a year or so when her dad came down the stairs of their suburban Pittsburgh dwelling toting a 1916 vintage, side-by-side, Ithaca 12-gauge shotgun. To say that her father wasn’t overly impressed with his daughter’s choice of a mate for life would be an exercise in hyperbole. I was speechless as he pushed the gun in my direction. He spoke only these words, “If she comes back, so does the gun.” We didn’t discuss the heirloom or its transfer again for many years. The shotgun was battered and desperately worn. Most of the bluing had been erased with time. There were so many cracks and chips in the ancient walnut stock that I fully expected it to come apart in my hands while in the field. The mid-rib solder bead had been compromised and I didn’t know whether to shoot the thing or hang it on the mantle for safety’s sake. In a last-ditch effort to revive the piece for one more hunt, I fashioned a chunk of scrap white pine board and a hunk of plywood into the ugliest piece of stock extension you could imagine, drywall screwing the affair to the butt stock. Over the top, I added an old Pachmayr slip grip butt pad held in place with a tasteful strip of Duct tape. Visually, the results could be regarded as questionable. Functionally, it would prove to be off the charts. When I shared my gunsmithing talents with Jack, he shot me the same look that’s reserved for future son-in-laws who bring engaged daughters home past curfew.
I took the gun afield as a matter of politeness, having no idea that this double and I were meant for each other. On a late-season grouse hunt, I shot the first grouse that ever flushed before me in the wild. A bird of questionable intelligence erupted from cover, proceeded down an open path continuing straight away, unfettered, offering the clearest of shots. I stumbled on a root, fired both barrels simultaneously and may or may not have closed both eyes. The grouse folded and, as they say, “The rest is history.” I became a dyed-in-the-wool grouse hunter at that very moment. Talk about your epiphanies. Pheasant season arrived the next fall, playing out in much the same fashion. The gun seemed to make up for my lack of shooting skill. Most every flush seemed destined to the game bag at the hands of my dowry.
After a few seasons of friends and acquaintances commenting on the rigged affair of plywood, drywall screws and Duct tape, I buckled. During the off season, I secretly hauled the shabby affair over to my gunsmith with explicit instructions not to change the stock dimensions in any way. Mr. Berish did exactly so and presented me with a much more attractive, solidly repaired shooter. He added an old White Line recoil pad to lend a touch of class to the affair. Alas, a few more seasons of the same good luck were brought to a halt when the shotgun began moving in places where shotguns aren’t supposed to move.
I always dreamed of restoring my dowry to its original glory, but could never justify the expense for such a relic. My father-in-law agreed it rather foolish to waste so much money on a museum piece. He almost seemed to approve of my good sense and thrift. I smiled and saved my pennies. It wouldn’t be the last time that Jack questioned my spending priorities. In addition to being broke, I was petrified of modifying the stock for fear of losing the magic.
Enter Super Mario (Barchesi). I was given the name of a local fellow who worked on gun stocks. Following a lengthy visit to his shop, Mario convinced me that this gun’s soul was present and accounted for. After a few weeks, a ridiculously short time in shotgun restoration years, I got the call for the unveiling. There would be no disappointment in Mario’s craft. We’ve become friends over the years and his abilities as a gunsmith as well as a wood sculptor continue to impress. With each masterpiece I witness from his hands, I’m overwhelmed at his breathing life into what would appear to be yet another throw-away in a parade of forgotten firearms. Nothing fancy was done to the fowling piece because there was nothing fancy about the gun from its birth. A beautiful piece of rather plain American walnut was used for the butt stock. The original splinter fore-end was kept intact. A deep dark blue luster brought the class back to the ancient tubes and the case coloring was kept to a minimum as were originals of the day. The old butt pad was reused as well. Cheese grater sharp 18 line per inch checkering added the finishing touches. Mario’s vision as both gunsmith and artist had been fully realized.
I drove my prize back to our farm and awaited Jack’s next visit. For weeks I would take her down from the wall of my study and gaze approvingly at what had been accomplished. When Jack appeared at our door, I resisted rushing him immediately to my study. A few hours later, I told Jack that I had something I wanted him to see. I retrieved his shotgun from the rack, placing it in his hands.
Casually looking it over, Jack said nothing. As he handed it back to me Jack realized what he’d been holding all along. He managed to choke out, “This is just like my dad’s.”
“No, Jack, it is your dad’s. Just been polished up a bit,” I replied.
Jack whispered, “No, David, it’s yoursnow …”
This column is dedicated to my father-in-law, John O. “Jack” Mitchell (1930-2023) who departed this life on Sunday, June 11, 2023. Rest in peace, Jack. Sorry you never got the son-in-law you deserved.
Dave Bates is a soon to be retired school teacher/principal, police officer, writer/author and shooting instructor. He lives on a small farm in the Southwest corner of Pennsylvania with his wife Kelly, daughter Emma and German shorthaired pointer Gertrude The Wonder Dog. Dave looks forward to spending the month of October in the Price County, Wisconsin, area chasing grouse and woodcock in the approaching seasons.
