Our
barn is old. Historic old. Built circa 1840, the barn is sixty
some feet long and three stories tall.
The posts and beams are thick as tree trunks (of course) and the two
carrying beams are the longest pieces of wood I have ever seen.
The sills are long gone; sunk into the earth over time and therefore
the posts sit in the dirt. The tin
on the roof is old and bent. The
barn has not had real livestock – cows and pigs or sheep – for thirty years or
so. Our chickens do live in the
two coops – one upstairs for the bantams when we have them and one downstairs
for the lazy laying hens (the rooster can roost where he wants). Chickens don’t count, though. Meaningful
livestock keep a barn hydrated, exhaling and just living, keeping things warm
and moist.
Our barn then is dried out.
It lets in the elements.
Weather and wild animals come and go as they please. And given we have chickens, the barn
also holds feed and water.
We
have pigeons then because we have the barn, open to the elements, with feed and
water and chickens so, naturally, the pigeons moved in. High rafters where to perch, good feed (not
chicken scratch but organic all-grain layer mash), a tall roof where to sit and
a nice yard where to hang. They
love it here. And we hate them.
The
pigeons are dirty. They eat the
chickens’ food. They are
annoying. They look, well, like
pigeons, which reputationally is not so good. Profiled. I
want them gone.
But
all I do is grumble about the pigeons; swear at them; ruminate on how to
poison, trap or annoy them but never take action. I could grumble and do nothing for the rest of my life. And I’d be happy. There is nothing better in life than harmless
annoyances to rail against.
One day, mumbling as I was getting out of the car, complaining
about the pigeons, I said “the things you see when you don’t have a gun.” My wife, who is English, did not know I
was simply talking trash. She did not know the line is an old Vermont saying;
something you reserve for when someone cuts in front of you waiting for
cold-cuts at the grocer or asks yet another question at a dull meeting at
work. You mumble “the things you
see when you don’t have a gun,” not meaning it, but making the point. She thought, ‘my husband will kill the
pigeons if he has a gun.’
So,
my wife, a woman of action, not trash talk, went out and bought me a gun. She bought me a Ruger 1022
semi-automatic .22 caliber short-barrel target rifle. A classic.
Of
course the first thing I did when I got my rifle was go out and fire off a few rounds. I aimed carefully at the small metal
target and missed it every time. Unfortunately for me, as I was about to blame
the gun, my brother-in-law picked it up and deadeye Chris spun the small metal target
plate every time he pulled the trigger. And then, weeks later, just as my aim was improving, the
rifle started to jam.
Nothing is more frustrating than getting into the blood-pumping
rhythm of a semi-automatic only to have the gun jam. I took the rifle, tucked under my arm, into the gun shop.
I
don’t remember the name of the young man helping me at the gun shop but he was terrific, professional. He had a slight wad of chew between lip and gums, was calm and friendly, service oriented, a natural. He took the gun apart,
laying down a steady patter as he did so.
He talked about his favorite guns, his own 1022 and how Ruger stood
behind their weapons. He talked with
a cop who was hanging out in the shop. They were gossiping about a girl in town the officer’d recently arrested and the shop man defended her. He said ‘she’s
actually really nice.’ He talked
me through how to take apart, bathe, clean and reassemble the weapon. He took more time cleaning the gun than
I’ve ever given to cleaning my kids.
He took my reassembled rifle outside and fired it to see what the
problem was. We were standing by a
small pond.
“It’s
a good gun for shooting frogs,” he said.
He regularly takes his 1022 out to the pond near his house and shoots bull frogs,
frying up the legs. “The batter I
use is terrific.” Pop! Pop! Pop!
Jam. “I take a cup of milk,” Pop!
Pop! Jam. I make a crushed cheetos
and corn-flakes mix,” Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Jam. “I dunk the legs in the milk and then roll the legs in the
cheeto/corn-flake mix. Fry them in
butter or oil. Delicious.” Pop! Jam. “Your gun’s going back to Ruger” he said.
He told me he shared his fried frog legs mix one day with some
girls. They loved the cheeto mix
and didn’t freak out until they knew they were eating frog, not chicken. But they cleared the plate. Guess they taste like chicken.
David Rocchio lives, works and writes in Stowe, Vermont. (c) 2012 David Rocchio
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