I just surfaced from reading all 380-odd pages of my Uncle Stewart's memoirs; I'm not sure I could have stopped if the house had caught fire, they were that good. One of the most captivating stories is the last illness and death of my amazing 98 year-old Aunt Alta:
Shortly into the New Year, 1997, my dear old aunt collapsed in her lovely Royal Oaks apartment and was whisked away to the Emergency station of Boswell’s Hospital. She was still conscious when we arrived. She who always seemed to have a smile, gave Liz a small, whimsical smile as she whispered, “Here I go.” (p. 304)
As we were driving to the gun range I tried explaining to Denver - my 14 year-old - why they enthralled me the way they did; I came up short. "It's not merely 85 years of world or U.S. or even just my uncle's history, it's all that plus my history - and your history - an intimate look at our genetic timeline, past and future. It shines light on my father and grandfather, and their fathers and grandfathers, that reveal facets I had no idea existed. That knowledge affects me and you directly because they are part of us." He watched the passing scenery for a moment then said, "Huh." I could tell my explanation fell short of the passion I felt for the subject, which held no fascination for him at all. For one thing, Denver doesn't know my Uncle Stew, shares no immediate context with me for what a smiling, teasing, truly joy-filled man he represents in my memories - he's as mythical to Denver as my Aunt Janet is to me. For another, Denver's sphere of interests do not include genetic traits such as he and his brother's tallness or slender build (which, after reading Stew's memoirs, I suspect comes from their great-great grandfather Hugh Stewart). Perhaps one day he'll care, in which case the Memoirs will be there, thanks to Uncle Stew's efforts.
We were headed to the gun range in part to try out a beautiful old .22 target rifle inherited from Denver's maternal great-grandfather and also because I was inspired by the Memoirs to take a half-day from work to spend more time with my boys. Work, for multiple reasons, has usually held the highest priority for me; today, at least, I wanted that priority to change. I also looked forward to shooting the Kalashnikov I'd bought as a favor from an out-of-work neighbor two years ago; it had been collecting dust in my closet since then. It's hard to find a rifle range near a big city but I'd recently taken a concealed / carry handgun class and the range we qualified on was only 45 minutes away, just across the border in South Carolina (perhaps the most gun-friendly state this side of the Mississippi). I bought a family membership to the range and this was our first opportunity to use it.
The owner (Stony) and a sleepy-eyed pit bull met us and showed us around. The range was arranged on 50 acres of woods and featured places to practice pistol, rifle, shotgun, and archery shooting. We were the only ones there on a workday afternoon. Stony and the dog left us on the rifle range and headed back to the office shack. We walked downrange to place our targets at 50 and 100 yards then mounted the steps to the upper level of the two-story firing line shed. We screwed in our ear protection and after a quick safety briefing Denver and his .22 immediately started blasting the 50-yard target with uncanny accuracy. I had nearly 300 rounds of old 7.62x39 ammo I wanted to use up with the AK-47 so I started blasting too - for three rounds, before it jammed. The humidity was making the bullets 'sweat' and they weren't sliding into the chamber all the way. I had to pull back the operating handle between each shot to manually load the round. I fired 14 more rounds before the pin securing the firing hammer worked its way loose and the whole hammer twisted sideways under the bolt cover from the tension of the wire wrap around its base . Denver, meanwhile, was merrily blazing away with his ancient - and apparently indistructible - .22. "I thought these things were built by the Russians to be tough!", I thought with frustration. I flipped it over. "Manufactured in Monroe, NC.". Nuts. I spent 25 minutes disassembling the gun and investigating the malfuction while Denver happily shot through his box of 50 rounds. Later, I asked Stony why my Kalashnikov broke when it had such a reputation for ruggedness. "It's not as famous for durability as it is for being easy to fix when it breaks,which it does all the time. That's the design you go to when you need to make 50 million guns in a hurry and hand them to teenagers to fight your war for you - it has to be idiot-proof". Well, I felt like an idiot for not being able to fix it but with Stony's (and Google's) help we figured it out. Even though I didn't get to shoot as much as I'd hoped I still felt like I learned a lot and it was a productive trip. Denver loved it.
I mused the whole way home about little moments like these that make up a person's Memoirs. Almost every moment of my life I feel like a failure but today Denver and I made a lifetime memory.
I want to make more of those.
When he was my age Uncle Stew made the firm decision to create memories with family trips. His Memoirs have inspired me to pursue more memory-making outings with my family. I want to live so that when I feel that inexorable slide toward death I won't fight and wail "Not yet!"; I want to smile serenely and say with anticipation: "Here I go!"
"Oh, wait..."
"One more thing..."
"...You can have my Kalashnikov - it sucks."
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