When I first moved to North Carolina, pistol-purchase permits were as confusing as directions from the locals. The moonshiner’s farmhouse burned to the ground in ’63, but instead of writing it off, it’s still the county’s main navigational aid and the source of many a folk song. I was equally lost trying to feel my way through a nearly 100-year-old law that requires a permit from the local sheriff to purchase a handgun (in addition to the NICs check), and were it not for the help of the personnel at the Hoke County Sheriff’s Office I’d still be singing the blues. 

Your father was probably the one who got you started in shooting, yet you’re trolling the bargain bins in discount stores this week, hoping to find something inexpensive that will satisfy his insatiable appetite for dust-collecting knickknacks. My father’s attic was home to two-dozen Chia pets, an uneaten five-pound gummy bear and a pet rock collection currently the subject of a U.S. Geological Survey all-points-bulletin. All were misguided gifts for the avid outdoorsman and shooter.

An abused J. Stevens single-shot, break-open 12-gauge holds of place of honor today, and receives more attention than the SIG Sauer M400, Beretta Storm Carbine, Kimber 84 and Remington 700 that share the vault. I knew it could never be, but somehow I’d hoped it would always be with Dad, proudly hanging on the den wall like it did when I was growing up, visually teasing friends until they’d finally inquire about the old gun and sit hypnotized as my father shared hunting tales from the Great Depression.