One Man’s Fox

My father was a lenient cuss back in the early 50s. Bless his heart; he felt a man should know more about ‘modified’ and ‘full’ than of Lewis and Clark. And I did.

The 50s were times when an intimate knowledge of choke patterns and wisely selected shot sizes meant meat in the winter larder; more important to the men in our family than any historical expedition. Harvest time and canning season ran a tail-sniffing second only to Christmas when it came to excitement and celebration. Simple living, shotguns and survival were words to virtually live by. And though times were tough, they remained unpretentious and the quality of everyday life back then was unequaled.

As a youngster of the 50s, one had precious little time for leisure or recreation. There was recreation alright, but what we considered fun or enjoyable then, may by today’s standards, be labeled “work.”

There was a lengthy trapline to work, coal to shovel, wood to split, hides to scrape and stretch and a father’s heating and plumbing shop to tend in the town of Greensburg, PA, to name but a few! Recreation or leisure in those days might have been lying before the fireplace watching the odd flickering reflection of flames dancing on the pages of an arithmetic book. This then, was about as close to recreation as the times would allow and, insofar as entertainment goes, it really wasn’t all that bad. Flame dancing had a way of stirring the dreamer in a kid and if a kid of the fabulous 50s measured dreams in terms of currency, each of us was wealthy.

This youngster’s dreams were of bone-handled sheath knives, high-lacing leather boots that kissed the bottom of the knees, red and black wool-plaid hunting shirts and jackets, not having to wear those cloddy galoshes to school and shotguns, actually all guns, but smoothbores in particular. At least those shotgun types that didn’t outweigh the family dog (we always had big dogs!) or those able to exceed the shooting range of a 105-Howitzer!

Grandfather, whom everyone, including me, called Pap, owned such a gun, one which was synonymous with the adjective, “sleek.” A Fox Sterlingworth in 16-bore. A piece of simple weaponry that came to the shoulder with unnoticeable effort at the urging of a single brain cell. One of those rare shotguns that one could truly, “just point!” The spray from the business end seemed, then, (and now!) magical. The old Fox was as elegant and as slim as a winter weasel, as solid as the safes of Switzerland. And the only gun in Pap’s humble arsenal-used to kill everything from blackbirds to whitetails.

I recall a deer season long before the time I was part of the gang, when Pap killed an eight-point buck with a single shot from the Fox. Launching a “punkinball” from such a gun seemed sacrilegious, like asking the Pope to a beer party, but still, it was an impressive accomplishment… I can hear Pap saying, “Boy oh boy, Joey, that old buck went down like someone hit him on the coconut with a sledge hammer!” Pap was from the “old country,” and every head, animal’s or human’s, was a coconut.

My childhood arsenal was simple. I had but a timeless Daisy Red Ryder BB gun. But it became highly notorious in our country neighborhood, perhaps even more than the buntline carried by one infamous Wyatt Earp? Neighbors referred to it as “…the little devil’s deadly Daisy.” I just called her Daisy. And to this day, it’s the only gun I’ve ever seen that shot two trajectories; one which pushed the BB earthward in short order and the other which drove it, drastically, to the right. However, in time, I learned to make up for Daisy’s inadequacies.

My trapline gun, which actually belonged to my father, was an old, acne-ridden Steven’s single-shot .22. I did have a sleek back pocket companion of awesome power: A slingshot I’d crafted from a slick “Y” branch I’d found in a neighbor’s garage. But yes, that was it. My arsenal extraordinaire; deer rifles such as Dad’s .300 Savage lever and the smooth-handling Fox doubles such as Pap’s were guns that fired my nightly dreams-only!

At twelve, I was given a beautiful (cosmetically only!) German side-by-side shotgun choked “Clark & Clark.” Or full and full like many shotguns of European persuasion. The barrels on the German gun were all of 34-inches long and the chokes tighter than the north-end of a south-bound field mouse! Pinpoint accuracy was mandatory (not the norm with a scattergun) and if I planned to eat (which we always did!) what I shot, I had to make a headshot.

Pap, Dad, (Dad later became called Pap) and Uncle Buck used to chuckle in such a mischievous manner, it made my ears turn red every time we went hunting and I toted the old German gun. Pap would sympathize: “It’s sinful to bring up a hunting son with a shotgun that shoots a tighter ‘group’ than a deer rifle!” But, as nerve-testing time went by in the pheasant swamps and quail fields, I became pretty handy with the old German, not to mention that I, very likely, became the sole, living reason Remington-Peters’ stocks split several times? Why I’d bought enough shells with my trapline bounty, they may have, at one time, written me some sort of endorsement contract? Perhaps even a toll-free hotline number straight to their master loader’s cubicle?

In later years, I was honored with an opportunity to shoot with the famous cowboy, Roy Rodgers. We’d moved to California just prior to my graduation year and lived but a few miles from him. And a finer gentleman I’ve yet to meet!

I managed to outshoot Roy in two rounds of trap, using the old German. Roy, in that gentle, soft drawl he had back then said, “Why I’ve never seen anyone wait quite so long to smoke a clay bird!” I told him if I didn’t wait until the clays were almost in the neighboring county, I’d likely miss them; that the old thing shot a terribly tight pattern. That day, if I recall, Roy and I sat on his Chatsworth, California ranch and he asked me whether I’d sell him the shotgun. He loved it. “Roy, I’d love you to have it, believe me, but my father liberated it from a Nazi concentration camp (Buchenwald) and I just couldn’t let it go.” He, of course, understood, but still asked if he could shoot a round or two of clays with it. And shoot he did! He shot that old German shotgun better than anyone ever did. He was and is and forever shall be, “The King of Cowboys!” A personal hero of mine for countless years.

One evening as I was feverishly sweating over a dozen or so chilled muskrats (when they’re cold, getting their skin off is akin to peeling porcelain off a sink top!), Pap stopped by. He sat quietly on the old cider barrel for the longest time, smoking one of those Italian stogies which smelled not better than fresh water buffalo droppings!

“Joey,” he finally said, “you’re growing into one fine young man. You’re a hard worker. And I suppose (he spoke broken Italian!) you feel your daddy and I don’t recognize this in you all the time? But we do, Son, and I want to let you know that one of these days, real soon probably, old Pap-Pap is going to give you his Fox. But only when I’m sure you’ve become a responsible man, and earned the right to carry such a fine gun. The Fox, you know, is one of the world’s greatest shotguns?”

I lit up like a 30-minute road flare! “Pap,” I said, “I’d love to own a Fox just like yours, but not your Fox!” Still, he insisted it was mine when and if I proved myself responsible and mature. And, as I look back, I think I would have duked it out with the great Rocky Marciano, bare-knuckled, for that old Fox!

A few days later, Pap came out to the house and decided to burn off the buffalo grass in a section where he planned to plant next spring. Our field was about 2-acres. We took up our rakes and shovels and Pap methodically set the field afire. But moments later, the wind kicked up and the field began to burn wildly-out of control!

We smacked at flames for all we were worth, Pap even resorting to using his sweaty, old shirt but our efforts seemed (and were!) hopeless. Panic came into play, for there was no way we could contain this fire ourselves. And we realized it in very short order. If the fire had spread to a neighbor’s grove of blue spruce, we’d have been in serious trouble. Our neighbor was attorney Fred Seymour.

The nearest water source was a hose bib on the side of our house, all of 100-yards away! Our hose was 50-feet long, or worse, 250-feet short! My mind raced, my heart pounded mercilessly. Then I remembered. The neighbor’s pool was still full of water. I ran to the garage, grabbed two, five-gallon buckets we used for apple picking and raced toward the pool. Heaven knows how many trips to and from the pool I made, carrying water buckets, but not long after say, umpteen-hundred sprints, Pap and I had the fire completely under control. I was exhausted. Imagine, a 120-pounder running for the better part of a half an hour carrying some 80-pounds per sprint?

Pap, too, was exhausted. We just sat there in silence watching millions of little smoke curls heading upward from the smoldering field. Pap suddenly looked over at me and began laughing. So heartily, it caused my laughter to kick in! “I just wish you could have seen yourself running back and forth with those big water buckets! Pap was so afraid you were going to trip over your tongue. Why your arms are probably six-inches longer now!” He’s borderline hysterical now! “Why if you ever grow into them, you’ll be able to play for the Harlem Globe Trotters!” I was tired and just looked over and into his smiling eyes and chuckled.

Pap continued: “You’ve done a fine thing, Joey. As funny as it is right now, it was an emergency and you kept your head and took care of it. That fire could’ve turned into a big problem. You’ve done real well, son, real well. How foolish Pap-Pap was to set such a large section on fire with just the two of us to take care of it. By golly, old Pap is proud of you.”

Hunting season came and I, again, toted the old German to the swamp and fields. And yes, once again everyone got their laughs about my having to use the “scatter-rifle.” Pap spoke in my defense: “Regardless of how we poke fun at Joey, he’s become a darned fine wingshot with that double and not one of us has shot doubles on grouse like he did. Let the boy have some peace…”

I doubt I would have survived my teenage years without him, without his loving support. Sure, I hade my other crosses to bear, like everyone else, but the German double was indeed the worst thorn in my posterior.

Come November 13th, I’d turn 16. That meant a driver’s license, drive-in movies, cruising Greensburg’s Main Street and a cheerleader riding shotgun for me-and with me!

I had plenty of money saved from pelt sales and just prior to turning 16, I planned to buy a ’48 Chevy coupe from a friend. Dad opposed the transaction and I tried for all I was worth to convince him that just because he heard it needed an entire exhaust system, four tires, wrist-pins, an engine and a heater core was not reason enough to prohibit my buying it! The deal, of course, never transpired.

November 13 was going much like any other day. Up at 5 a.m., check the trapline, store the muskrats in my burlap hunting bag, change boots to shoes, catch the schoolbus, spend eight hours giving various teachers gray hair, flirt with Kathy Elder, work in Dad’s plumbing & heating shop for heaven knew how long, go home, skin out the muskrats, eat supper, do homework, then? Go to bed! Whew! Long sentence, longer day.

That night however, wasn’t your normal 1958 evening. After supper, Pap came over and asked Dad to go somewhere in his old Jeep Wagoneer. I was asked to “guard the cake” until they returned and to get my homework done.

Soon, Pap’s Jeep came up the drive and moments later, they came into the house and asked my stepmother and siblings, Cheryl, Frankie and Kelly, to follow them outside. “Joey, lead the way.” Pap said. As we all marched toward the door, Dad switched on the floods to light the driveway area.

As I looked out onto the drive, I saw a shiny 1951 Chevy coupe sitting there, a Deluxe model in two-door! I looked questioningly back toward Dad. “Yep, yours,” is all he said, nodding his head. The Chevy was mine. Mouth open, jaw agape, I walked toward the car, then trotted the remaining 10-yards or so. I touched virtually every surface on it as though it were a Rolls Royce and seconds later noticed it had a low, rear tire. Pap said, “Don’t you worry, Joey, there’s a new tire pump in the trunk!” He tossed me the keys.

I opened the trunk and there, inside, was one of our five-gallon apple buckets with something sticking out of it. I reached and pulled out the barrel half of Pap’s Fox Sterlingworth, then the stock assembly. I peeked out from inside the trunk in Pap’s direction, then held up the barrel section wearing a quizzical look. “That’s yours too, Joey. Happy Birthday, Son! And that bucket you just took it from is what helped earn you the Fox for your very own!”

I know I didn’t cry that night as I cuddled up in bed, next to the Fox. Boys of the fifties never cried or at least never fetched up to so doing. I do know, however, I wanted to, for that Fox meant more to me than the ’51 Chevy or any gift I’d ever before received. And I remember the feeling I had that night as though it were this morning. My Fox, why it was (is) so sleek, my stepmother never even noticed it beneath my covers that night: November 13, 1958.

The Fox to this day hangs in our home. I’ve given it to my son, Justin, but we sort of share ownership. It looks as well or better than it did that long ago night. Justin, however, felt it should be retired but still, every once in a while when we get serious about sharing a brace of grouse for dinner, one of us will take it down and get the job done with the magic, old Fox. Maybe once a year.

One late night, while in the mood for handling the Fox, I took it down wearing that automatic smile it always brought to my face. I looked it over affectionately and shot a few imaginary grouse that have a welcome habit of flushing from a corner in our living room; my way of shooting doubles anytime I wish.

This late-night ambition along with an ardent need to fondle the old gun, soon had me rubbing it down with Liquid Gold and light-coating the liquid-steel barrels with Hoppe’s No. 9. As I sat there rubbing in the Gold, I noticed the pistol-grip cap was a bit loose. I removed it with a screwdriver to see what the problem was. And there in the walnut, hidden all these years by the cap, were the crudely carved initials, “J.P.”

Pap’s name, of course, was Joe Parry too. And my son’s initials are J.P. His middle name being Joseph. So, I figured Pap had it all planned long ago? He was magical and very wise and clearly, to all who knew him, the greatest man they’d ever known.

And I suppose what hurts most, is the fact that the Fox’s original owner isn’t around these parts anymore. And he was the man who made a man of me by giving me a very special Fox 16-bore, for he said, “This will teach you great responsibility, Joey.” It has done that and so much more. I feel sure Pap knew I’d one day have a son of my own to whom I’d ultimately give the Fox. I’ve done that, for he’s a fine young man; responsible, and a better son doesn’t exist.

I also feel sure he loves and appreciates the old gun as much as I did when I got it. He’s told me and yes, he knows the story of how I came to get it. He’s very appreciative too, of not having to get it the way I did in the 50’s, for he’s said, “Geez, Pop, you aren’t gonna be setting any fields on fire are you, you never did grow into your arms and I don’t want any part of having arms with which I can scratch my knees without having to bend over just a little.”

“No fires, Son, no fires. Just that which burns inside of me for you, your great-grandfather and that old Fox which now belongs to one man…”


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