Feb 24, 2023 4 min read

As I make my way up and down the aisles of the gun show, a repeated pattern unfolds before me. Rack after rack of display weapons contains one black rifle after another.

They are mostly AR-15 variants with a Frankenteinian look to them. Some earn splashes of iridescent purple and gold and neon. There are bells and whistles, bipods, lights and lasers, and much, much more, reminiscent of a Dr. Suess illustration. If you are old enough that you didn’t have to Google the contraptions to which I refer, you get two bonus points as a reader.

Let’s be fair. I agree that all weapons, like all babies and all puppies, are beautiful in their own homely way. But the further I continue down the road, the less enthralled I am at the quality of what I am seeing before me. There is no soul lying within. These weapons are plastic and utilitarian, at best.

Just when I have given up hope for the future of the firearms industry, lightning strikes.

Like a small voice from Horton Hears a Who, I begin to eavesdrop on a conversation taking place between what appears to be a grandfather and his grandson. The young boy has just discovered a rifle that doesn’t look like all the others. He can’t seem to put his finger on it, but there is something about this particular weapon that our little man likes, he just can’t decide why. By the way, our young fellow has spied a pre 64′ Winchester Model 70 bolt-action classic. Grandpa patiently explains that all weapons used to have that look. Pap begins to articulate the process of bluing and what it takes to arrive at that beautiful patina. He explains the intricacies of heat bluing, cold bluing, rust bluing and it is evident that the young man has absolutely no notion, whatsoever, of what the heck grandpa is talking about, but the boy hangs on every word, anyways.

Pap asks the vendor if they might see the relic and ever so carefully, the man behind the counter hands the rifle to the gentleman who places it in the hands of his boy. The rifle is far too large for the boy’s current build but it makes no difference. The ear to ear grin tells the full story of the blossoming love affair and Grandpa assures our fledgling firearms expert that although this particular gun might not be the one for him, there most definitely will be others. Truthfully, Grandpa displays signs of true relief, having avoided the purchase of such a high-grade weapon. The pair make their way to the next aisle in search of a bargain shooter that bears similar traits but at a bit more affordable price point.

Having watched the scene unfold, I find myself still smiling as they disappear into the crowd. I am convinced that there is still hope for the next generation of sportsmen and women. No longer feeling like the old codger that I probably am, I am inclined to cut the youth of America a bit of slack. Any protege with that sort of discriminating eye and high-caliber taste in firearms certainly has a bright future in my myopic view.

As I pick my way among the booths, I suddenly feel inclined to deliver a sermon on hand-rubbed linseed oil stocks, rosewood forend caps and white spacers. If I hurry along, I might be able to catch up to the pair by the time they make their way to the powder horn booth. I could give the young lad some instruction on the finer points of the use of Circassian walnut versus American Black walnut. But, alas, they have escaped. Grandpa’s wallet remains intact for one more day, never realizing their near proximity to death or danger, or at least extreme boredom.

A weapon should have a soul and the fertile ground for growing such takes root in blue steel and walnut and in the hands of a youngster that caresses and admires and cherishes that very piece.