In 1972, I purchased a commemorative Marlin 39 .22 lever-action carbine. I was a third-year student in dental school in San Francisco, and, at the time, I could never have imagined my future with that little rifle. Not many years later, I was a dentist in private practice in San Jose, Calif. I was married to Alicia, a beautiful, high-spirited gal who also managed my dental office.
Alicia was very accepting of my firearms and shooting hobby, and she liked shooting my Smith & Wesson Model 19 .357 Mag. revolver with my lightly charged handloads. She also liked shooting my iron-sighted Sedgley 1903 Springfield .30-’06 Sprg. sporter with my own cast-bullet handloads. However, once Alicia tried out the Marlin 39, she declared it “my Marlin,” and that was that.
We used to take it out for target practice in Coyote Valley, south of San Jose, and during the summer, we would take it to our rented cabin in the Sierra Nevada Mountains. Nearby was an abandoned meadow with huge tree trunks left over from a logging operation, and that is where we set up tin cans for practice. She was a fine shot offhand and kneeling.
In the summer of 1983, just for fun, I brought up an old cast-iron frying pan to see what would happen if she shot at it with the usual standard-velocity ammunition. I placed the pan against a huge fallen tree trunk, with a slight rise of terrain beyond it; we backed up about 35 yards for safety. Alicia’s first shot broke the 10" frying pan into two pieces. She cried out with delight, and then I witnessed a real shooting performance. Working the lever so quickly I could barely follow the action, she proceeded to shatter the remains of the pan into a pile of silver-dollar-size pieces in short order. Since she didn’t miss, each cartridge did its work. When done, Alicia reminded me about the gun’s ownership, saying, “This is my Marlin.”
Many summers have come and gone since that sunny day in the High Sierras, and my wife passed away this year. I’m an old guy with a bunch of fancy sporting arms, but the only one that means anything to me is that Marlin that belonged to my Alicia—my own “Annie Oakley.”
—J.L. Vitenson
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