I believe I was about twelve at the time. On one of many occasions, Granddad took me to the Izaac Walton League farm house in Browntown, VA. I went there many times with him during my childhood. Sometimes my brother and I went with him, and a few times we were joined by a cousin or two. On this particular occasion, it was just the two of us and he had brought his Hawken muzzle load rifle along. As was usually the case, he spent a couple of hours working on the farm while I occupied myself fishing in the small, still pond for “sunfish” and exploring within sight of the old, white farm house.
When it came time to go to the shooting range later in the day, I was very excited. Granddad had agreed to let me shoot the rifle—my very first time ever to get to shoot a gun. We walked up the hill away from the farm house and pond into the edge of the woods. After only a few paces, we came to a narrow and long clearing. The target area was to our left and a picnic table was in front of us. I guess the picnic table was about 25 yards from the target, and there was another marker at about 50 yards. We walked up to the picnic table and he laid the rifle and a box of supplies on it.
I watched carefully as he went about loading the rifle. I’m sure I asked him two or three questions for everything he did. “Is that the powder, Granddad? What happens if you use too much? … What’s that (the lubricated cloth patch)? What’s that for?” I watched closely as he methodically performed each step to load the rifle with a grey, round ball and then set the firing cap in place.
He went first, setting up a fresh paper target for us to shoot at. It had several concentric circles with a large black dot in the center. I stuck my fingers in my ears and tried not to close my eyes when it went off, but they blinked anyway. I was amazed at the plume of blue-grey smoke that blew out before us. It must have gone out about ten feet and then rolling about, it filled the air around us. Slowly, it thinned out as the cloud drifted away. I am sure he told me that it was going to be really loud but I remember thinking, “that wasn’t so bad”.
When it came for me to shoot, Granddad loaded the rifle just as he had done before. I watched with fascination as he used the wood ram rod to jam the bullet down the barrel until it would go no further. Then he put the rod back in place on the rifle and handed it to me. “You might want to sit down and rest your elbow on the table” he mentioned. But determined, I stayed standing and tried to hold it up and aim it towards the target like he did. After a few seconds of pointing it at the target and watching it move first this way, then that, it started getting heavier. I quickly realized that I better take his advice and I sat down at the picnic table and tried again.
He showed me how to prop my left elbow on the table and steady the rifle, then stood back and waited quietly. With my left elbow planted on the table and my right arm pulling the butt of the rifle into my shoulder, my mind questioned for a second how hard the rifle was going to kick when I pulled the trigger. The sight on the end of the barrel moved slowly from off one side of the target through and over past the other. A little higher… now a little lower I thought, as the sight continued to avoid my attempts to put it on the target. After a couple of slow swings through center of the target, I decided I wasn’t going to be able to hold it completely still in the right spot. So, I made up my mind to “time it” the next time the front sight was headed for a pass through the target.
Just then, the wandering sight slowed down and changed direction. It set a course to swing right through the center of the small target, and right when it was about to cross dead center, I pulled my index finger on the hair trigger. BANG!!! A stream of smoke shot fourth and tumbled about before me. It expanded rapidly, twisting about as it fought against an invisible foe in front of us. It temporarily obscured the target so my straining eyes could barely see it.
I turned to Granddad, now standing at attention on my right, and though I was yelling at him, my voice came out sounding no louder than a whisper. “Did I hit it Granddad – Did I hit it?” His eyes were as big as I ever saw them while he leaned forward in his tan overalls and peered intently at the target through his glasses. My mind briefly was distracted as to why, even though I was yelling, I could barely hear what I was saying… “Did I hit it?” I asked again enthusiastically? “I think so!” he turned his head and yelled back to me as if he knew that I needed to see his mouth move to understand what he was saying. I was so surprised at the look of amazement in his face and also by how distant his voice sounded, though it was as strong and solid as it ever was. We left the picnic table to take a closer look. In fact, I had missed the center of the target by only about two inches!
Granddad was shocked. He didn’t shake his head and he didn’t say anything like he couldn’t believe it, but I could tell he was surprised. That made me proud. I was so happy that I did a good job and so very excited to shoot it again. But, alas, when he was loading the rifle for another shot, the wooden ram rod cracked nearly in two and we were left without the ability to push the lead ball all the way down the barrel. Though we were done for the day, I was easily two inches taller as we walked back toward the farm house. “I did pretty good huh? I did better than you did, didn’t I Granddad? I almost shot the center of the target!” Well, I can’t remember if that’s exactly what I said to him or not, but I’ll definitely remember shooting with Granddad that day always. And I can’t wait to see him again in heaven… Miss you Granddad.
Submitted By: Garrett Mathews, the younger of two sons of Patricia Clifton, the youngest of four daughters of Emory E. Clifton and Francis Louis Lowry. 3/15/2008.
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I was a small boy and still jumping into the pool feet first. Everyone else could dive in but me. The first time I tried, I hit the water flat on my belly and it stung. I also remember other kids laughing. Despite swimming classes at the Roanoke YMCA, the embarrassment had become too much and I had given up trying.
One day in Front Royal, Granddad was watching me play in the pool and asked if I knew how to dive in head first. I told him that I couldn’t and assumed he would let it go at that. When I started to jump in again, he stopped me and said, “Just put your head between your arms, then point your arms down into the water”. I had never heard it explained to me in such simple terms before, so I decided to try. I felt clumsy hitting the water, and embarrassed because of my failure. Coming back up I heard his patient voice, “Now, remember to keep your head down between your arms this time”. I wanted to quit, but he insisted I try again. The next time I heard, “Now, keep doing that but point your arms down. Your body will follow”. Soon after, I remember slipping beneath the water with barely a splash, cruising across the bottom of the pool, and coming up on the other side full of pride and joy. I could see him on the other side, just sitting there with a big smile on his face. We didn’t have to say anything more.
Though he would not have taken credit for it, I believe he taught me something greater that day than how to dive into a pool. I learned about courage, persistence, and accomplishment. But even more, I learned how the kindness of a great man can make such a difference in the life of an impressionable boy after only a short time together. 35 years later, I considered it a great honor to help bear his casket at his funeral. If the best I can become is merely a shadow of the man he was, I will consider mine a life well lived also.
Submitted By: Clifford Owen Rhodenizer Jr., 10/15/2006
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