THE OLD DAISY 25
In the spring of 1968, a cherished heirloom was passed down to me – a 1934 Daisy 25 BB gun, a symbol of tradition and trust. My grandpa, with his farm weathered hands and tall statue, gave it to me on my ninth birthday. It was more than just a gift; it was a rite of passage, the belief in my growing maturity. The gun, with its stained wood and patina blue metal, felt like a piece of history in my hands, a link to his past and the adventures my grandpa had shared with me in his stories of when he was my age.
The farm was my playground, and with the BB gun in hand, it transformed into a land of endless possibilities. I remember the first time I aimed at an old tin can on top of a fence post, the satisfying 'ping' as the BB found its mark. It wasn't just about hitting the target it was about learning responsibility, understanding the weight of the tool in my hands, as i was taught following him, my dad and brothers hunting. He taught me to respect the land, safety and respecting the power it held. My grandpa watched me from the porch, a silent giant, always there to guide but letting me find my own way.
Days on the farm were long and filled with the kind of fun that didn't require much more than an open field and a curious mind. I'd venture out at dawn, the BB gun in hand, and explore the barn and yard, the woods that bordered our land. And Birds chirped overhead, and I'd wait for them to land. My grandpa had taught us boys. Rats, mice, sparrows, and starlings where the enemies Always have choice words for them. If I were to find one, I'd take careful aim. Hopefully, I hit my mark, and countless small critters were taken with that old 25. I can see why grandpa alway had it leaning in the corner of the barn.
It was a companion on those solitary forays into the feild, a reminder of my grandpa's trust and the lessons he instilled in me.
The BB gun now a part of my own story. Each dent and scratch it indured was a memory, of the joy, of growing up on a southern Idaho farm
In the spring of 1968, a cherished heirloom was passed down to me – a 1934 Daisy 25 BB gun, a symbol of tradition and trust. My grandpa, with his farm weathered hands and tall statue, gave it to me on my ninth birthday. It was more than just a gift; it was a rite of passage, the belief in my growing maturity. The gun, with its stained wood and patina blue metal, felt like a piece of history in my hands, a link to his past and the adventures my grandpa had shared with me in his stories of when he was my age.
The farm was my playground, and with the BB gun in hand, it transformed into a land of endless possibilities. I remember the first time I aimed at an old tin can on top of a fence post, the satisfying 'ping' as the BB found its mark. It wasn't just about hitting the target it was about learning responsibility, understanding the weight of the tool in my hands, as i was taught following him, my dad and brothers hunting. He taught me to respect the land, safety and respecting the power it held. My grandpa watched me from the porch, a silent giant, always there to guide but letting me find my own way.
Days on the farm were long and filled with the kind of fun that didn't require much more than an open field and a curious mind. I'd venture out at dawn, the BB gun in hand, and explore the barn and yard, the woods that bordered our land. And Birds chirped overhead, and I'd wait for them to land. My grandpa had taught us boys. Rats, mice, sparrows, and starlings where the enemies Always have choice words for them. If I were to find one, I'd take careful aim. Hopefully, I hit my mark, and countless small critters were taken with that old 25. I can see why grandpa alway had it leaning in the corner of the barn.
It was a companion on those solitary forays into the feild, a reminder of my grandpa's trust and the lessons he instilled in me.
The BB gun now a part of my own story. Each dent and scratch it indured was a memory, of the joy, of growing up on a southern Idaho farm
