I started dragging around a 1906 when it was longer than I was tall. When I finally grew up to it, Dad started letting me have ammo (shorts, of course). Mass quantities of walnuts, acorns, bottle caps, blue jays in the cornfield, and a few snapping turtles in the spring, went west in front of that little rifle. One night when I was a teenager, the sound of that action racking in the darkness instantly sobered up a drunk who had just proposed to beat the crap out of my father (Dad was just recovering from back surgery and wasn't up to his usual capability). I think I can safely say that little Winchester was a vital part of my growing-up.

It doesn't get shot much now, but it will never leave this place until they pat me in the face with a shovel, and I may just decide to take it with me.

Catoosa