As I grew older, I became more interested in my ancestry and began to find all the information I could. Information is readily available about births, marriages and deaths, but what about small details that are the bulk of a person's life? I have often wished my father had kept a diary or written stories about his life. My grandfather, Victor Colson, recorded a lot in diary form and considerable in story form but day to day details, like how he felt or thought or his interactions with others, are mostly missing. There is little said about special joys, discouragements, depression or how he dealt with problems that arose.
It might be questionable whether I will have descendants interested in the life of an ancestor who was not very illustrious. However, since I have yearned for insight into my parents' and grandparents' days on earth, I am encouraged to undertake the tedious and difficult task of recording my own experiences, thoughts, fears, ups and downs.
The generation I was in was on the edge of great and amazing transitions. I saw the advent radio, TV, tractors, rural electricity, radar, luxurious propelled combines, chain saws, computers, refrigeration, coast to coast multi-lane roads and many other things too numerous to list. I saw the phasing out in our region of horses and the implements they pulled, hand saws and hand drills, scythes, kerosine lamps, washboards, small towns, outside toilets, wood cook stoves, hundreds of small farms, and many other things.
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There was a gun tradition in the Colson family. It was probably started by some distant ancestor, possibly in the old country. Guns were an important tool, as much so as a hammer or an axe. The danger was always a concern, and fathers and grandfathers wanted boys to learn safely and early the proper use and care of the indispensable firearm. Strict rules were taught and adhered to.
According to my dad, Russell E. Colson, the first gun a Colson boy could expect was a .22 rifle at the age of eleven. He said, "I got my first single shot when I was eleven, and that's when you can have one, if you learn how to be careful."
I learned how to be careful under Dad's watchful eye while using a BB gun then borrowing his .22. So, at the age of eleven I received my .22 Stevens single shot.
Grandpa was an avid hunter, and I observed the gun he used most was not a rifle but a single shot 12 gauge shotgun. It looked old and worn from much use. On the side and above the trigger was engraved the name, Meriden Fire Arms Co. The gun must have shot hundreds of boxes of shells. Grandpa was not one to waste anything, especially not shotgun shells; commensurate with that, it was not surprising that he had a reputation of extreme accuracy.
"A single shot is all anyone needs," Grandpa said, "repeaters just encourage bad marksmanship."
I began to think a .22 rifle was not the answer to all a boy's needs, and that notion was reinforced when I found out rifles were not allowed in wolf hunts. There was a wolf hunt planned for an area encompassing Odessa township, and I desperately wanted to go. I think it was in the fall of 1940.
I don’t know why they called them wolf hunts. There were no wolves in Kansas, but there were too many coyotes and that is what the hunt was about. People who had their turkeys, lambs, chickens and baby calves decimated by marauding coyotes understood well the need to reduce their numbers.
Grandpa offered to let me use his .410 gauge shotgun and go with him, so I was overjoyed. We started at the west side of Odessa township in Jewell County, Kansas, and progressed to a point near the center of the east half of section 15 when a line captain called for us to stop so slower parts of the line could catch up. Actually, the place where we stopped was right across the road from the rock house where I was born.
A few guys in the line bunched up a little to talk, and there was an older kid who had been walking south of us. I knew him as Keith Cline. He had a repeater model 97 Winchester 12 gauge and for some reason he decided to take the shells out by working the pump action. In the process he waved the barrel around, pointing it in various directions.
The explosion that occurred was not the gun; it was Grandpa. With very stern, loud and long vituperations, Grandpa spelled out to Keith all the safety lessons that Colson boys were required to learn before they got their first gun. Keith was mortified, and I was embarrassed and wilted.
As I grew older, I realized Grandpa had done a really good thing. Not only did he possibly save someone's life then, but later as well. I'll bet Keith remembered Grandpa's severe admonitions every time he picked up a gun. I know the safety teaching my dad had given me was so reinforced that day I could not possibly forget.
©2020 - Russell Colson