Guns right, no guns left

The instructions were easy; the results were, I guess, to be expected.

“If you have a gun, stay to the right,” the exasperated voice repeatedly yelled. “No gun, keep moving to the left.”

I’m sure I wasn’t the only one to pick up on the right/left, conservative/liberal, gun/no gun irony.  There were many more people headed right than keeping left the morning my nephew Larry and I went to the Oaks Gun Show in suburban Philadelphia.  We stayed to the left. We were gunless.

The no-gun left line was moving only slightly faster than the armed one on the right as show security officials wanted to ensure that those attendees who were packing had proper locks or other safety precautions in place for their weapons.

A couple in front of us in the gun free line had a young girl with them who was maybe eight or nine.  She was cute as a button with a blonde ponytail reaching about halfway down her back; it was sticking out from a small camouflage National Rifle Association baseball cap perched on her head.

Phil Robertson

The male adult with the girl was wearing a black t-shirt bearing a large image of Phil Robertson’s head and beard and the words “Happy, Happy, Happy.”  I assume this is a catchphrase on the Duck Dynasty television show. I have not yet caught an episode, so I wasn’t really sure.

Larry and I were there as part of my ongoing hunting and firearms research project as I finish up my gun free school zone magazine article.  Before we were even in the door — with the two gun/no gun lines, the pre-teen future NRA member and the Phil Robertson fan in front of me – I knew I was out of my element.  Thankfully, I had an expert with me.

As I’ve mentioned in several earlier blogs, I’ve relied on two guys in the know to help guide me through the unfamiliar environment of gun culture – my dear friend and neighbor Rus and my nephew and golfing buddy Larry.  Larry is the husband of my wife’s brother’s youngest daughter Eva.  He’s a Penn State engineering graduate and a lifelong hunter who grew up in central Pennsylvania.

Larry, with a crossbow

We knew the show was going to be crowded as we sat in traffic for a mile and half before entering the parking lot.  It was bumper-to-bumper from before the exit on Route 422, down the ramp, under the highway and back up a local road on the other side of the freeway to the exhibition center.

As we inched along, Larry explained how New Jersey’s restrictive gun ownership laws did not make it profitable for gun shows to be held in the Garden State.  The waiting period in New Jersey can be as long as 30 days; in Pennsylvania, as we would learn once we finally got inside, people were filling out forms, paying their money and walking out with weapons.

“Keep moving.  Ammunition? Keep to the right; same as guns,” we heard Mr. Frustrated yell once again as we finally remitted our $12 admission fee – Larry refused to let me pay (I would pick up lunch later in the day) – and we were in.

Two other signs

As I was out of my element, and really didn’t want a confrontation – this is a gun show, for goodness sake! – I tried to be as unobtrusive as I could, both taking notes and taking photographs.  One shot I had to get was of the stacks and stacks of gun signs on tables just past the entry foyer.  Two of my favorites were: “We do not dial 9-1-1, we have 9mm” and “If you can read this, you are in range.”

An elderly man walking determinedly with a cane passed by us as we entered the main hall.  He had a rifle with a long carrying strap flung over his shoulder with a little white paper sign taped to a long dowel sticking out of the barrel.  The sign read “$350 or b.o.” Larry explained that it was an older, probably collectable, Remington long rifle that the man had brought to the show to sell.  He was not the only private gun vendor we saw hawking his wares that morning.

“Not a toy”

The main exhibition hall was immense, but it was only one of four rooms of about the same size that were filled, almost shoulder to shoulder, with gun enthusiasts, hopeful owners and the curious.  There were pistols, rifles, shotguns and accessories as far as you could see.  The crowd was mostly white males, but there were women and there were many more children than I expected.

What there were not that many of were African Americans.  We spent about two-and-a-half hours walking up and down aisle after aisle, and I would say I saw fewer than 10 persons of color.  Very surprising, considering how close we were to center city Philadelphia. I actually saw two different couples – one older, on a bit younger – several times.  I found that demographically fascinating.  Despite his expertise in the field, Larry was of no help on this issue.

Larry’s knowledge, however, was called into play at one of the first tables we stopped.  Firearm tyro that I am, I had no idea that shotguns were produced in different lengths for different uses.  The longer the barrel, Larry explained, the more accurate the weapon was at a greater distance, and the more concentrated the spread of the projectile shot pellets.

Shotgun choke settings

This, however, is not always the case, as he went on to show me, and explain, the concept of a shotgun choke.  Having a choke at the end of your shotgun – not every shotgun comes with an adjustable choke – allows you to control the spread and accuracy of the same weapon quickly, and in the field.  This, Larry explained, allows a hunter to use the same weapon to go after small, close-range game and larger, longer-range game with the same shotgun.

“Keep in mind,” he told me as he manually adjusted the choke on the sample shotgun he was holding, “you’re carrying this gun for 10, 12, 15 hours through the woods. If you can bring a shorter, lighter weapon and still use it effectively at various distances, it makes a world of difference.”

He handed me the weapon.  “Imagine carrying this long, heavy shotgun for 12 hours,” he said, “either in your two hands, or over your shoulder, without ever putting it down.”  It was heavy.  I agreed.

While more expensive models have a greater number of choke settings, the three basic positions are full, modified and improved with average optimal ranges of 50, 30 and 25 yards, respectively.

As my nephew finished his choke talk, Bob – the vendor whose shotgun Larry was holding — came over and offered it for sale for $350.  Larry replied he was in the market for a new shotgun, but said he was saving up for a new set of Ping irons.  Bob laughed and said it’s tough to have two such expensive hobbies – hunting and golf – and we started talking.

Take your pick of pistols

Bob, who lives in Tulsa, Oklahoma, said he carts his inventory of about 200 pistols, shotguns and rifles to, roughly, 42 gun shows a year, logging about 48,000 miles annually. “It’s a living,” he said.  “You meet fascinating people.”  I’m sure you do, I told him as we shook hands and moved on.

Of all the different types of weapons on display and for sale, pistols were the most plentiful.  They were lined up on tables, mounted to boards and kept under glass – every one of them secured with a bank-pen-like security chain.  “Too easy to pocket and walk away with,” Larry explained as he aimed a bright-pink .38-caliber pistol at the ceiling.

Pink was a predominant color for the pistols that were not the standard black or silver in an obvious gesture to attract female firearm fans. There also were quite a few miniature pistols that could easily be concealed in a palm or pocket for added protection.

A rainbow of switchblades

There were almost as many switchblades on display as there were pistols.  Table after table.  Surprisingly, these were not tethered in place for security, but there were a few more vendor/attendants keeping an eye on this merchandise.

Several vendors offered do-it-yourself bullet-making machines – along with scales, empty cartridge shells and bags of shotgun pellets of many varying sizes — although we did not see any actual, ready-to-fire ammunition available.  I guess there are some lines that aren’t crossed, even in Pennsylvania.

Predominating the non-weapon paraphernalia for sale was quite a bit of Nazi memorabilia, including swastika arm bands. Sadly, this was not isolated to one or two tables, but was pretty much spread throughout the four exhibition halls.  I realize that if people are willing to buy, other people will sell, but I would have liked to see that line not be crossed as well.

Interestingly, one of these Nazi vendors was located across the aisle from a full-size, seemingly ready-to-operate World War II medical tent.  Aside the tent was an original WWII Jeep and next to that was a tank.  Yes, a real tank!  I thought that was the coolest part of the show.  This Army gear took up an entire end of one of the halls. The WWII re-enactors told Larry and me that, just like Bob from Tulsa, they visit a number of gun shows each year, with their impressive array of materiel in tow.

No shortage of shirts

A quick stop at one of the several deer jerky stands for free samples did nothing but increase our appetite, so we decided to leave and grab lunch, but not before after we took a glance at some t-shirts.  A few of our favorites were: “Alcohol, tobacco and firearms should be a convenience store, not a government agency” and “Waterboarding instructor.”

It was just about 1 p.m. when we left the building and the crowds still were pouring in – “guns to the right, no guns to the left.”

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Glassing on the moor

No matter what path we take in life, which new activity we choose, we have to start with the basics. Walking starts with sitting upright, then crawling. Talking starts with “mama” and “dada” and progresses to sentences and paragraphs.

Those sentences and paragraphs, in addition to forming our language, have a language of their own, a language we learn from the beginning, starting with the basics. Terms I learned from Mrs. Rastelli in sixth grade English at Thomas Jefferson Middle School still are with me today. When I discuss nouns, subjects, verbs, predicates and direct objects with my JOU 101 students, I can picture Mrs. R. holding her brown-covered Warriner’s textbook in one hand and a rubber-tipped wooden pointer in the other.

The world of golf, my recreational passion, has a unique language as well. I can describe in great detail how a consistent swing path, downward club head acceleration and synchronistic hip rotation contribute to square contact and straight, extended ball flight. Sadly, my understanding of the terminology, as extensive as it might be, is of no help when I’m on my fourth attempt to blast out of a greenside bunker.

Terminology plays an equally important role in the field of hunting. The “journey of knowledge and experience” in my “A-Hunting I Will Go” research project begins with a look at the language – the discourse, if you will – of the hunting community. Just as a crawled before I walked, I must study before I shoot.

My research already has led me to several interesting conclusions about the language and terminology of hunting:

— A large majority of the words involve the various types of weaponry, more than game, more than technique. This includes the guns themselves, the bullets and shells they fire and how they mechanically operate.
— There are a dizzying number of ways to talk about deer. I thought (sorry, Ms. Stein) that a deer is a deer is a deer, but this apparently is not the case.
— Same goes with parts of a bird. The simple terms head, body, wings and feet just don’t do it for hunters.
— In this discipline, nouns are used as verbs, verbs turn into nouns and the same word can have a different meaning, and serve as a different form of speech, depending on its application.
— Many hunting words have entered our everyday vernacular. Terms we use to describe common occurrences very often had their origin in our fields and forests.

These observations are not intended to be an all-inclusive glossary of hunting language and terminology, just a sampling of what I’ve come across along these first few miles of my hunting research journey.

How does that gun work?

An A-to-Z list of just weapon terminology would be easy to compile. It probably would start with “action” (noun – the collective moving parts that allow loading, firing and unloading) and end with “zero” (verb – the process of adjusting a rifle sight to improve accuracy). In between would be scores of words that describe individual parts, assembled weapons and techniques employed during the hunting process.

While many of the words are familiar – “barrel” is the steel tube through which the fired bullet travels; “hammer,” the part of the gun that’s controlled by the “trigger” and strikes the “firing pin” to discharge the “cartridge, and the “magazine” is the tube or box that holds cartridges or “shells” for mechanical insertion into the “chamber” for firing – others could leave you scratching your head.

— The “frizzen” is a high-strength carbon steel plate against which the “flint” of a “flintlock” firing mechanism scrapes. This action creates sparks to ignite the “firing powder,” exploding round projectiles, called “shot,” from the weapon. Every frizzen has a “frizzen spring” to control its action.
— A “tumbler” transfers the force of the “mainspring” from the trigger to the hammer and then to the firing pin. These components are the basic parts of a weapon’s firing mechanism.
— “Drop at heel” and “drop at comb” are important measurements that affect accurate aiming. A weapon’s “heel” is the upper part of a gun’s “stock” that fits into your shoulder; the “comb” is the forward edge of the stock that goes against your cheek. Their respective drops are the distances between your line of sight and the position of the heel and comb. Such factors as a hunter’s height and arm length and whether or not the target is stationary or moving come into play while aiming and firing.

I thought we were hunting deer?

Bambi was a “fawn,” his mother was a “doe, his father was a “buck.” Walt Disney taught us those terms, but what’s a brocket, a hummle, a knobber, a switch and a yeld? They’re all deer, but such differences as age, gender and antler structure matter to a hunter:

— “Brocket” – a male red deer in his third year.
— “Hummle” – a mature red deer stag which has grown no antlers
— “Knobber” – a male red deer in his third year
— “Switch” – a mature male deer whose antlers have no points. (“Points” are the horn features on antlers. The more points a deer has, the more it is prized.)
— “Yeld” – a female deer without offspring, usually because they are barren. Studies have shown that most yeld are the leaders of their herd.

That’s big talk for such a small bird

Birding, in a hunting context, presents a terminology of its own. Here are just a few examples of “fowl” language:

— A “cheeper” has nothing to do with miserly activity, but is a game bird that’s too young to be hunted
— A “cripple” is a bird that has been “winged,” that is, shot but not killed.
— “Eclipse” is the plumage of a male bird before he assumes his separate, fuller plumage for breeding.
— “Scapulars,” as those familiar with human physiology might figure out, are the feathers on the side and back of an avian shoulder.
— “Tertials” are the small, fine feathers closest to a bird’s body that, as one would surmise, lie inside the “secondaries.”

When is a noun also a verb? When you’re hunting

— Beat (noun) – An area from which game is driven, or flushed.
— Beat (verb) – The act of such driving or flushing.

— Drive (noun) – A time during the day when hunters are stationary while game is driven, or beat, toward them
— Drive (verb) – Same as beat, it’s also the act of flushing game.

— Head (noun) – The antlers of a deer, or other larger game, of either sex.
— Head (verb) – The act of taking a position in advance of driven, or beaten, game.

— Stock (noun) – As mentioned above, the handle of a shotgun, held against the shoulder.
Also a noun: “You must taste this game stock I just cooked up!”
— Stock (verb) – The act of land management officials releasing game into a particular habitat for hunting.

— Glass (verb) – to use binoculars or a telescope to scan the surrounding terrain.

Hey, that’s one of our words!

Many of the words we use every day either originated in a hunting context or are shared by hunters and non-hunters alike. Here are just a few examples:

— Every September, a “bevy of bathing beauties” compete in Atlantic City to be named Miss America. For a hunter, a “bevy” refers to a large gathering of game birds.
— Our friends at the National Security Agency do a lot of “covert” things, but that’s also a term to describe the feathers at the bottom of a bird’s wings.
— “Dancing ground” and “singing ground” would be great names for reality TV competitions, but they are interchangeable terms for areas in the wild where game fowl perform their courtship rituals in the spring.
— Does even the smallest thing set you off? Do you have a “hair-trigger” temper? For hunters, the term describes a trigger that releases the hammer with the slightest of pressure.
— While hunting, a “moor” is not Shakespeare’s suicidal Venetian general, but a treeless area on high ground ideal for hunting game fowl.
— A “pot hunter” is not someone on a street-corner search for illegal substances, but a person who hunts for sustenance and not sport.

Those were just, if I counted correctly, 54 words out of the hundreds that are used to describe the equipment, techniques and lifestyle of the hunting community. These are words I need to learn and become familiar with as I continue down the road of exploration to research this recreational pursuit enjoyed by millions of Americans.

Master the language, master the skill. If it was only that easy in golf!

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I went hunting, once. Sort of.

I went hunting, once. Sort of.

It was the fall of 1971, in the middle of what would end up being a state championship season for my high school football team, the Morris Hills Scarlet Knights. It was a rainy Sunday afternoon in October and my friend Mike, a fireplug we called Stump, and I were with an older teammate Greg. As sophomores, we were thrilled to be asked to hang out with a senior and Greg was taking us on a pheasant hunting trip to a remote area of Wharton, New Jersey, under a series of high-tension electrical transmission towers.

The reason I say I “sort-of” went hunting is that there was a cooler of beer in Greg’s car. When we parked, The Stumper and I decided to stay behind while Greg went in search of game fowl. Every once in a while, between sips and stories, we would hear a shotgun blast and we’d wonder if Greg was having fun and was being successful. However, as the time grew later, the car got colder and the cooler became emptier, we were ready to head home.

Right around dusk, Greg returned to the car carrying three pheasant. They went into a bag in the trunk of his Chrysler and we drove back to his house where he plucked, gutted and prepared them for cooking. Greg was nice enough to give each of us a bird as he dropped us off at our homes, even though Mike and I were anything but active participants in their procurement.

My mom wasn’t really sure what to do with this “gift,” but she roasted it in the oven with some rosemary, garlic and oregano. Her mother was born in Sicily, so everything got rosemary, garlic and oregano. Greg warned us to watch out for buckshot as we ate, and it was excellent advice. Despite extracting the occasional piece of metal from our mouths, it was an excellent meal. I can recall the taste today as if I just put down my fork; a bit gamy but very flavorful – without any of the unpronounceable additives in today’s supermarket poultry products.

By the way, a sidelight to that championship football season: Our star wide receiver was Ray Odierno, better known now as Gen. Raymond T. Odierno, U.S. Army Chief of Staff. He was as outstanding an individual then as he is today.

— — —

I’ve discharged a firearm, once.

It was September 2002 at the Equinox Resort in Manchester, Vermont, the day after the end of one of my wife’s corporate meetings. Lynne and her business partner Barb had just finished coordinating a 250-person meeting at the luxury Revolutionary War-era hotel and convention center. I was a speaker on the meeting agenda, so I already was in town; Barb’s husband Dave drove up from the Philadelphia area to join us for a few days of relaxation after all their hard work.

One morning, we were introduced to the art of falconry. During the demonstration, one of these large, graceful creatures landed on my outstretched, and thankfully gloved, forearm. I could feel the pulsing tension of his talons on my wrist as the bird obeyed the commands of the falconer to “stay,” . . . “stay,” . . . “stay” and then “fly!” An incredible experience.

That afternoon, an experience of a different kind took place when we went skeet shooting. None of us were surprised when Dave, an experienced sailboat captain and Coast Guard Auxiliary sailing instructor, hoisted his shotgun and nailed skeet after skeet. Lynne, Barb and I were – in varying degrees – just a bit behind Dave in our proficiency. Lynne, more skilled at things physical than she often gives herself credit for, held her own, picking off a skeet here and there. Barb struggled a bit, maybe winging one clay projectile. I was an absolute embarrassment.

I was quivering with fear – but tried my best not to show it – when I was handed the loaded weapon. I was convinced I’d pull a Ralphie and “shoot my eye out” or – worse yet – take out my wife or one of my dear friends by accident. I picked up the shotgun, put the stock in the crook of my shoulder and positioned my right eye over the raised sight to aim.

I pulled the trigger and ended up flat on my ass.

After the ear-shattering sound of the cartridge exploding out of the barrel, all I could hear – in my prone, dust-covered position – was the laughter of Lynne, Barb and Dave. I had to laugh too. I can barely handle a golf club; what kind of success did I expect to have with a firearm.

I took several more shots that afternoon and, while I never even came close to hitting a target, I did manage to remain upright for the rest of the experience.

—– —– —–

My nephew Larry hunts. All the time.

Growing up in central Pennsylvania with a houseful of brothers, he went hunting and fishing as frequently as I would spend afternoons cooking and baking with my grandmother. He’s constantly talking about an upcoming deer hunt, or a fishing trip, or a grouse excursion with his family or with friends from Penn State.

I once asked him about the experience. He said there’s nothing like walking into the woods on a brisk late fall night, hours before daylight, to assume your position in a well-shielded blind. You can see your breath as you wait for first light to break and that first buck to walk, unsuspectingly, into range. You pull the trigger and watch your perfectly placed shot put the animal down. You smile at the accomplishment, but know the real work is ahead – getting the deer out of the woods and either back to camp or to your car for the trip home. Your reward? A great trophy for the wall, months of venison burgers, steaks and stew and – most important – a story you can tell for the rest of your life.

—– —– —–

I’ve often wondered what it would be like to go hunting.

Would I feel exhilaration as I – in big-game hunter fashion – “bagged my quarry?” Would I be nauseated at the sight of the blood and the realization that I just had snuffed the life out of another living creature? Would I end up, as I did at the Equinox, flat on my ass?

Is it like the feeling you have when you hit the perfect golf shot? When you’re 110 yards out and you execute perfectly with your eight-iron and stick the ball a foot from the pin. You can’t wait to get back to the clubhouse to tell everyone in the bar “you won’t believe my third shot on Four!”

Is it like the feeling deep inside when you craft that perfect phrase, sentence, paragraph or article? The one you read over and over, marveling at its construction, its flow, its sheer poetry.

These are among the reasons I’m undertaking this hunting research project and planning to write an article about my journey. It’s a topic that’s always intrigued me but – for reasons of time and circumstance – I’ve never fully explored.

As a lifelong journalist, I have an innate curiosity about everything. I will trust these instincts to guide me along this road to hunting knowledge and experience. I also need to trust my journalistic ethics to keep me on the straight and narrow, on a Joe Friday “just the facts” quest for information.

I always have been, and always will be, an animal lover. I cried for a week when, on June 6, 2003, we had to put to sleep our beloved Shetland Sheepdog Taylor. At age 15, his sable body was riddled with tumors and it was the right thing to do. My eyes are tearing as I type these words. I think about the little guy every day. He’d sleep curled up next to me in bed and would lick my nose to wake me. We’d go walking – he rarely was on a leash – and I’d verbally direct him to the “front door” or “back door” and he got it right every time. I’d tell people, only half-kiddingly, that he was smarter than some humans I knew.

I realize, if I end up on a hunting trip during this research, that we won’t be hunting dogs, but we will be hunting animals. Living, breathing creatures. I must be able to keep my feelings and reactions bottled up. I know I can do this because, as a trained professional, it’s the only way I know how to operate. I have many friends who are part of the so-called “liberal elite press” who successfully cover politicians of both parties, far left and far right, with the same unbiased reporting skills that I need to bring to this project.

I’ll be attending gun shows. I’ll spend time at gun shops. I hope to speak with the NRA and I’m sure I’ll encounter animal rights groups. A major goal would be to take a hunting trip. At the very least, I plan to visit a firing range.

I plan to use as many different, non-journalistic research methods as I can. I want to study the field of hunting from as many angles as possible and expose myself to a wide range of opinions.  When the time comes to write, I will follow the research and information wherever it leads.

I also will break new ground, for me at least, by jumping without abandon into social media research. I plan to focus on two arenas: Facebook and Twitter.

— Up until this project, posts on my Facebook page have been limited to updates on my latest golf score – current best for 18 holes is 97 (Aruba, January 2012; see the photo on my profile page) – or pithy comments about topics that amuse me or tick me off.

— My Twitter history began on a six-person family golf trip (golf, what a surprise!) to Myrtle Beach several years ago. The group thought it would be fun for us to tweet from time to time throughout our rounds, but the practice was called off when I started tweeting after every hole and, eventually, every shot.

I will use these two social media platforms to publicize my blog and to solicit information from, on Facebook, friends and family and, on Twitter, from related discourse communities whose members I will seek out.

When the time comes to write and publish this nonfiction investigative essay, I see two potential categories of target publications: General interest magazines and literary journals.

As much as I’d like to see this work published in such statewide or regional periodicals as Inside Jersey, New Jersey Monthly or Philadelphia magazine, I don’t believe the essay format or proposed research methods would be a good fit for these publications.

Under the general interest category, I would consider submissions to such books as The Atlantic Monthly, Harper’s Magazine, The New Yorker or The New York Times Magazine.

Literary magazines I’m currently looking at include Confrontation (Long Island University), New England Review (Middlebury College), Subtropics (University of Florida) and Virginia Quarterly Review (University of Virginia). All, according to the 2014 Writer’s Market, publish nonfiction essays of between 5,000 and 9,000 words. Considering that this initial proposal is pushing 2,100 words, I assume I will be working at the higher end of this range.

So, let’s get started on this journey together. If you’ve read down this far, you clearly are interested to see what I’m up to and where I’m headed. In that case, join me! Click on the “Follow Steve Royek blog” icon at the top of this page to receive an email every time I add a new post to “A-Hunting I Will Go.”

Also, please feel free to comment on my posts. Let me know what you think about my work and pass along your thoughts, opinions and stories. I’m on a quest for information and every nugget of data is important. I will encounter, I’m sure, a wide range of emotions and passionate arguments on both sides. I will treat all comments equally and fairly as I perform my research and prepare my article.

I also will do my best to stay off my ass!

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