From the November/December 2011 Shotguns column of Sporting Classics Magazine. Subscribe Here.
I called my buddy Ken Eversull the other day about doing some work on my old Parker. If you don’t know him, he is a gunsmith, for lack of a more fitting term, and an absolute genius at his art. He lives and practices his trade in Louisiana and has forgotten more about fine guns than I ever imagined.
The gun that we were discussing is a Parker Trojan Grade that was made around 1917. When I bought the gun in the early 1970s I had recently read Peter Johnson’s book and was totally enthralled with the Parker mystique.
Before then, I had never even held a Parker and couldn’t believe my good fortune when I stumbled upon the old boy sitting in a rack in James Wilson’s store. I instantly knew that I had to have it, but as usual, James wouldn’t cut a penny off the price. The $350 price tag was far too big a pill to swallow for a young, wet-behind- the-ears, small-town lawyer with a new baby and a mountain of debt from student loans. Some itches just have to be scratched, though, and after a couple of sleepless nights I paid a visit to my banker, added a bit to the height of the mountain and paid full price.
Like all Trojan Grade Parkers, it was as plain as a mud fence, but something about the old gun spoke to me. It had 30-inch barrels choked “full and fuller,” and it was in near-new condition. All of the original bluing on the barrels was still intact. The case coloring on the receiver was only slightly faded, and the stock finish was unmarred. None of the screws had ever been turned and the wood-to-metal fit was absolutely perfect. The stock was a dark chocolate color with straight-grained black streaks running through it. The barrels had a sweet mellow ring to them and when the gun was closed, it had that little ting that all Parker lovers know. There was nothing fancy about the gun, but it had a good, solid, well-made feel to it that you’d like to see in every gun.
Through the years the triggers had gotten a little hard and the safety had gotten a little sticky so I figured that the time had come to send the old gun to Ken for some work. Of course, Ken cautioned me to he careful, because good work isn’t cheap and it would be easy to spend more on the gun than it was worth. I ruminated on the subject for a little while and decided to have the work done anyway, but it got me to thinking about what the old thing was worth to me.
The “Old Man” was the first “nice” gun I ever bought for myself and was the first shotgun that fit me pretty well. For a long time it was my only shotgun, and I used it on everything. No, it wasn’t the gun you’d pick for quail or woodcock, but it worked pretty well with spreader loads. It was perfect for doves and turkeys and waterfowl in the pre-steel days, and it would be impossible to even hazard a guess as to how many birds I took with it. In those days, if I was afield, Mr. Parker was resting in the crook of my left arm.
Once, I latched onto the absurd notion that I had sufficient skill to shoot competitively, and the old gun claimed many thousands of pigeons before incipient poverty and a whole raft of better shooters convinced me otherwise. Despite my somewhat mediocre skill, we won our share of small matches and came close on a few bigger ones. The gun obviously had a lot more talent than I did. Along the way we took a couple of deer with buckshot and more than a few pheasant, chukars and grouse.
With time, and the acquisition of a regular income, more guns were added to the household, some old, some new, some ordinary and some extremely fine. The Parker doesn’t see nearly as much field time as it used to, but once in a while I’ll take him down from his place of honor. Then we go for a little walk to reminisce, as old men will, about the good old days.
Of course, neither of us is in pristine condition anymore. Although he has never been abused, he has certainly been well used, and he shows all the scars and scratches that one would expect on a gun that has been hunted honestly and hard for nearly 40 years. His checkering is nearly gone, as is most of his finish. We share a common gray pall that the gun-sellers would probably refer to as “patina.” He has a couple of small dings on his barrels and several on his butt. As do I. He still works pretty well, so I guess I can’t be too critical if he’s a little gummed-up inside.
The Old Man is resting on my lap as I write this, and I couldn’t help but remember the time that we almost won the “big money” at a major shoot. And the time we ran a limit of greenheads without a miss while standing knee deep in the brickyard swamp.
I took my first turkey gobbler with the gun and it proved to be the first of at least a hundred that we double-teamed over the years. And how could we forget the pair of old gobblers that lived around the old homestead on the banks of Broad River. We hunted them for three years, and when the time came, the Old Man took both of them down with a single shot. One went 22 pounds and the other 23! The next year a couple of coyotes came to my call in the same spot and the Old Man rolled them with a right and left.
Another time years ago all the potholes and sloughs froze solid and the only “soft” water for a hundred miles was in Broad River. There were so many ducks on the river that you could have taken a limit with a boat paddle. After what seemed a century of waiting, Saturday finally came and the Old Man and I passed the morning on the riverbank, frozen into a blazing, sun-lit cameo of fire and ice, completely mesmerized by the awesome beauty of nature! Thousands of ducks and geese pirouetted around us. Untold numbers floated past in great greenheaded rafts. It was undoubtedly the most ducks and geese I’ve ever seen in a single day, and it is one of the most stunningly beautiful memories that I have accumulated in a long lifetime in the outdoors.
I knew at first light that shooting would be pointless. It would have been too easy, and nothing could have gilded that perfect day.
After a couple of hours, we made our way home totally satiated. Without firing a shot!
After nearly 40 years of trails together, I can’t remember a single time that the Old Man let me down. And I don’t reckon that I need to worry about spending more than it’s worth. It might not bring a lot of money at auction, but then, neither would I, and the battered old Parker is the one gun that I value beyond any price.
Don’t miss another story in Sporting Classics. Begin your own subscription today. Makes a great gift too! Subscribe Here