by Rick Chisholm -- guest
contributor
It was a fine, late summer’s day when the phone rang at my parents residence. I
was staying with them at the time, as I worked to pay-off some student debt. On
the phone was a gentleman from a gun store in a nearby city who wished to speak
with me. After the oft-occurring confusion caused by my father and I sharing
first names, we got the correct Rick on the phone. The man quickly informed me
that I had entered a contest and subsequently won. At the time I could not
recall entering a contest, but the prospect of winning anything from a gun shop
was rather thrilling. The voice on the phone rattled off quite a few details,
which I immediately forgot. The call ended and I stood there with my father
looking at me,
“Well?” He said.
“I won a gun.”
“Really?” He seemed almost dubious. “What kind?”
“The guy said Silver-something, Silver Pigeon maybe.” I advised.
“Never heard of it.”
“Me neither, I think he said it’s a Beretta.” I explained
excitedly.
My father frowned.
My head was filled with images of Martin Riggs gunning down bad guys with a
92FS, in the blockbuster Lethal Weapon series, perhaps the Silver Pigeon was a
special version of the iconic Beretta pistol. I had high hopes. My father,
however was likely secretly praying that it was not a pistol.
My Dad and I arranged a little trip to the city to collect my new gun. As soon
as the salesman brought out the large box, my hopes of a free pistol were
immediately dashed. Dad seemed pleasantly surprised though. The salesman
explained it was a 12 gauge over/under, yadda, yadda, yadda -- I think my lack
of enthusiasm was evident, and he saw an opportunity to make me a deal. While
Dad watched quietly from the sidelines, the salesman courted me with tantalizing
samples of “equivalent” firearms he was willing to substitute for the Beretta. A
parade of “cool” rifles and shotguns proceeded, with each came a subtle but
disapproving look from my Dad. I begrudgingly conceded to his experience and
wisdom and eventually left the store with the Beretta box under my arm and a
scowl on my face.
On the trip home, my Dad advised me that if I wished to sell the gun, I would do
best to do so privately and to maximize my price I would have to leave it in the
box and not shoot it.
Not
shoot it!
I was floored, it was bad enough to leave the store without some kind of black
semi-auto, paramilitary rifle, but to arrive home with nothing more than a box
that I dare not open was too much to bear.
In the end though, the decision was mine and I opened the box and stood in awe
at the beauty it contained. The Silver Pigeon was a magnificent shotgun,
gorgeous wood and intricate engraving, right then I understood that my Dad was
again right. I assembled the Silver Pigeon and fondly caressed that gun for the
next few hours, taking in every last detail. I carried it around like a new
baby, in fact, the gun barely left my side for the next few
days.
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| The Silver Pigeon III |
I am truly of the belief that a gun needs to be fired to be fully appreciated,
and although I was not certain if I would keep the Silver Pigeon or not, I took
it outside and fired a few rounds. I marveled at how good the gun felt in my
hand and how naturally it came up to my shoulder, I imagined pheasants rising
from tall, brown grass and being taken cleanly on the wing.
A couple weeks later I disembarked on a journey, first crewing a yacht on a 2000
mile cruise, followed by a cross Canada trip which drained my resources. I
called my Dad from the West Coast and asked him to sell my new shotgun, at the
time the need to eat and pay for lodging superseded my need for having a fine
shotgun in my collection.
To this day, selling the Beretta is one of my biggest regrets, and to be honest,
I regret selling practically all the guns I have offloaded over the years. Yet,
that Beretta was exceptional, I think partially due to the fact that I acquired
it during a time of upheaval in my life and partially because it represents a
rare but special instance of camaraderie between my late father and me. Now that
I am older with a family of my own, I realize just how right he was about a
great many things, and how his subtle guidance was so important as I grew up.
Someday I will replace the Beretta I let slip away, and I will share it with my
son, and whether we journey to the field or the range, I know my Dad will be
there with us, looking down with that wry grin that says,
“I told you so.”
Rick
Chisholm is an IT Security Officer and guest contributor for the Beretta
Blog. He can be reached on Twitter under the handle @rickchisholm
This post and its contents are the views and opinions
of the author only, and do not represent those of Beretta.
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