"Memories of an Airgunner; Then and Now" By Harvey Binder

There are moments in our memories that we all cherish. Things we did in our youth. For most little boys they are memories of the Great Hunts we recreated from the programs we saw on television. They might have been our way of hunting with our fathers, grandfathers, uncles and cousins. Our big guns were Red Riders, Crosman 760s, Benjamins and Sheridans and our quarry was African big game or the twelve point buck mounted on the wall back home. Whatever connected us to our families or Mutual of Omaha was what brought boys in American neighborhoods to the edge of town, to the small hardwood stands just outside the the reach of city street lamps. In reality, we could've been within calling range of mother's kitchen but to us we were far away. We were becoming men in our own rights.

They were glorious times. Trekking across fields, crossing streams, and silently stalking sparrows in the small stands of trees that seem to border all of suburbia. We learned about comeraderie, how easily brush can tear a good pair of jeans and just how well a little sparrow can hear a boy creeping toward it.

We discovered how hard it is to be still when you've got ants in your pants. Or what you will do when its a bug you've never seen before!

Those were the days. They were boisterous when we made an especially good shot. They were quiet when only one bird presented itself. They might've been moments of introspection as we remembered uncle Jim, recently departed, who loved The Hunt.

We grew during those times. We took important steps while we stayed young. Memories that bring smiles to our faces and friends who didn't know what it meant to hurt someone intentionally. No wonder we look back with such fondness. No wonder we try to recapture those paths in the woods back home.

No matter where I hunt, whether alone or with friends, I always find a moment to remember those times. The thrill of walking into the only wilderness an average suburban boy could hope for. But those woods were more than that. They were the springboard for the imaginations of generations of little boys, their trusty air rifles at the ready.

So here we are, each of us one little boy in generations of millions, carrying our airguns into the woods to recapture the uncluttered happiness of our youth. I wouldn't have it any other way.

Would you?

Happy hunting