Home Forums Hunting & Shooting Canada Hey You, Boy! A younger man meets an older hunter

Hey You, Boy!
copyright 2003 – Stephen Redgwell

“Hey you, boy! Yes, I’m talkin’ to you. Come over here!”



I have to admit that being called 'boy' was not something that I’d normally answer to...if you catch my drift. Heck, I’m fifty. This old guy wanted to talk though, and I had time. One of the important rules at the range was being prepared to shoot the breeze too.

“I seen you here before. Whatcha gonna do? Gonna shoot?”

What a gruff old bugger. He had to be in his eighties at least. But you know, old people can be like kids in some ways. Trying to pin down their ages is a prime example. He wasn’t too tall. Five foot six maybe. He hadn’t shaved in a few days and the grey stubble matched his hair. He was slightly built and dressed in a red, plaid shirt and dark pants.

“Good morning, sir. Yep, I’m here to do some shooting. How about yourself?”

“Sassy boy, eh? Well, at least your folks taught you some manners. Of course I’m here to shoot! Are you an idiot? Squirrels runnin’ loose upstairs maybe? Why else would I be here?”

Hmmm. Maybe a tad senile too. No harm in that.

“Well, I thought you might be here to watch, or maybe to take in the morning air.”

“Is that so? You think I’m too old to shoot? Why, I was blastin’ up this here pile of dirt before you was born. Heck, I was here before it WAS a range! And hey, did your daddy slap you in the head much?. Takin’ the morning air! On a gun range! Sweet Lord Aloysius!”

He seemed upset, but extended his hand nonetheless and introduced himself as Mr. Beresford. With the same hand, he waved me over to a bench loaded down with rifle cases.

“These here would be my rifles. Actually, they’re my favourites. I see you only got one. Forgot the rest at home, did ya?”

“No sir. I brought this one because I built some loads for it and wanted to test them.”

“Cheese and rice! A reloader!”

I didn’t quite know what to think of that. Mr. Beresford was what my dad would have called “a character”. Tough to figure out. Was he looking for attention or just naturally grumpy?

“You didn’t tell me yer name, boy. If I’m goin’ to address you, I gotta know yer name. You DO have a name don’t you? Or did ya leave that at home with yer powder?”

“My name’s Ed. Ed Anderson. And I’m pleased to meet you.”

Mr. Beresford stared at me for a few seconds, his hand rubbing across the stubble on his face. I think that he was trying to figure out why I was still acting politely. Or maybe not. It was hard to tell. His tone softened though when he pulled out one of his rifles.

“This here’s Molly. She’s a Model 95 Winchester that I’ve had since new. Wanna hold her?”

“Please.”

That was all I could say. You should have seen it. The rifle was in beautiful condition. It had to be 70 or 80 years old, but looked almost new. The wood was in flawless condition. Oil rubbed no doubt. The metal was smooth, with no scratches or pitting. The only place where the finish had worn off was around the lever and at the muzzle.

“It’s beautiful, Mr. Beresford. Do you hunt with it?”

“Yes. And in all the years I’ve owned her, Molly’s never let me down. I took a nice buck with her last year and many moose before that. It’s my primary gun. This here’s my backup.”

He pulled a second rifle from an old leather case tied up with hide. It was in well used condition with lots of scars, but obviously cared for as well.

“This is Sadie. She’s an 1893 Marlin in 30/30. She was my father’s. He gave it me just before he passed away in 1950. Sadie can’t keep up with Molly though. Molly’s a 303 British. But heck, you can’t fault her either. She’s taken her fair share of game too. Let me get some shells and we’ll try them out.”

These rifles were a joy to hold. They were both original pieces to be sure, but when Mr. Beresford spoke about them, his tone softened. It was the fact that he had them for so long and they had become part of his life. Lots of fond memories.

“See here, Ed? These marks on Sadie’s stock were from when Dad went huntin’ around Sault Ste Marie back in the ‘20s. I was too young to go. He told me later that he was stalkin' this deer, and took a tumble over some rocks. Stupid deer. They’re supposed to hear everything. Dad got up, cut and scratched to beat Jesus, saw the deer starin’ down at him and shot it on the spot. He used to say that it was the best damn deer meat he’d ever eaten. “

“Is this gouge in the side plate from the fall too?” It was touched up with a cold bluing stick by the look of it.

“No. That’s from the time when me and my oldest boy was huntin’ out the back of the farm. I gave it to him for to use that day and he closed the tail gate of the truck on her. Boy, was I mad. I didn’t say nothin’ though. You could see in his eyes that he felt awful. He hurried up real quick and got the cleaning kit. He wiped her down and coloured in the nick with a black magic marker. Later on, we fixed the spot with proper bluing.

Larry loved to hold and clean all the guns. When he got older you could always trust him with any of ‘em. He went out with me every year, ‘til he joined the army.”

“You must be very proud of him.” I said.

“Yep. But we lost him in 1979...”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“Heck son, don’t be. He’s just got more time now to scout out the spots for me. I reckon I’ll be joinin’ him in a few years myself. It’s nice to know that someone’s there ahead of you, checking things out. He’s probably with Dad right now.”

That touched me deeply. I had lost my father two years before. No matter where either of us were in this world, we always made sure that we were together for the moose opener. Lots of good memories.

“Mr Beresford, do you have any other children?’

“I got Tammy. She’s my little girl. Her and her mom would go out with the rest of us over deer season. Except for grouse, she never hunted, but Tammy and my wife looked after things back at camp.

You could always rely on her and Marie – that’s my wife – to have hot food ready when we got back. Tammy loved to make a grouse stew for everyone on the first night at camp. She’s married now, and I hunt with her husband Al. And she’s there too, complete with a hot stew!”

“That’s great, Mr. Beresford. You’re a lucky man to have people around that care. I go hunting with couple of friends from high school. My little brother goes too, now that he’s got his business running well. My dad’s not here anymore, but like you said, he’s up ahead scouting things out for the rest of us.”

Mr. Beresford had that thoughtful look in his eye when people are thinking of something pleasant. Then he turned around and headed back towards his guns saying,

“You can take that to the bank, Ed. No matter where we go or what we do, somebody’s always watchin’ over us.”

He stared up at the sky and saw black clouds moving in.

“Well Ed, looks like there’s no time left to shoot today. I guess nothin’ good came of the morning...”

Keeping it to myself, I respectfully disagreed.

First installment Mr. Redgwell? It looks good. Be Well, Rustyzipper.

I wrote that 17 years ago. It was a 'one of'. I normally do not take requests, but I threw this together this evening. It hasn't been edited, so please forgive any mistakes.

Mister Beresford, You Will Be Missed
Copyright 2020 – Stephen Redgwell

The obituary read Andrew Mason Beresford, 1922 – 2012. It was three paragraphs of blah that the newspaper threw together for their weekly. It was an incomplete narrative of a man who lived 90 years. How do you sum up a man’s life in less than 100 words?

I only knew Mr. Beresford for nine of those years, but learned a lot about him in that time. He was a railroad man, who married his high school sweetheart in 1942, just before going overseas with the Canadian Army. Mr. Beresford didn't expect to come back he told me, "But don't tell Marie! She'll think I took advantage!" Your secret is safe with me, sir.

Their union produced two children, Lawrence (Larry) in 1949, and Tammy in 1951. By that time, he was working for CN, the Canadian National Railway, on an extra gang, looking after tracks. He was dispatched out of Capreol, Ontario. His official title was Rail Track Maintenance Man, but people who did that kind of work wore many hats. When you are maintaining track hundreds of miles away from the nearest yard, you had to improvise. That's how Mr. Beresford ended up with his father's 30-30.

The first time the senior Beresford visited his son in Capreol was the summer of 1950. Despite living only 40 miles away in Sudbury, it took about half a day to get there. It seems silly now, but it was a real concern back then. Most of the roads were unpaved and rough.

What his father saw was a small town, carved out of the bush, so remote that things like pots and pans, light bulbs or ammunition were often in short supply. Because of that, he had a gift for Andy – his old 30-30 and two boxes of ammunition.

A few months earlier, when Andy was visiting his father, he said that they often stayed in the bush for weeks, and there were times when no one brought a rifle. It would be handy to harvest fresh moose meat, and to have protection from wolves. The men were often watched and even followed when they worked on the tracks.

With the gift of the rifle, Andy started hunting in places where no man had ever set foot. He usually shot a moose, but bear was on the menu occasionally as well. Throughout the year, he got the best fishing, hunting, and the juiciest blueberries in the uncivilized world, or so he used to say. He could never get enough blueberry jam!

Andy worked for CN for 36 years, retiring in 1983. At his retirement dinner, his friends teased him about the care he took with his old 30-30. It was treated better than the men! But it was all in good fun. Everyone who worked with Andy appreciated his old lever, and the man who carried it, when they were on the job.

His family said the only low point in his life was when his son died while serving with the army. Even years later, he did not like talking about it.

"It took me 20 years to come to terms with that. Even so, it's not something I am comfortable with."

Before we actually met, I used to see Andy at the gun club. Doing the math, he would have been 59 then. I was 35 years younger than he, so we never talked. Over time however, I discovered that he owned five firearms. A 50s vintage Smith and Wesson Model 27 revolver, a 30-30 Marlin and a 303 1895 lever, a single shot 22 rimfire and an older 870 12 gauge.

He shot skeet every week for years with that old pump. He bought it at Canadian Tire, but that's about the only thing he remembered. He didn't even know the barrel choke.

"It doesn't matter. I like this barrel, and I know how it shoots."

No argument, Andy!

After our first meeting at the range in the early 2000s, he began to warm up to me. We used to shoot side by side. I talked about reloading and bolt actions. He talked about cheap 30-30 factory ammunition and levers. Despite our age difference and mismatched equipment tastes, he put up with me. He probably enjoyed the company, and I liked his stories about working on the railroad.

In the early 1950s, he said he bought a S&W Model 27, 4 inch revolver when he was in the US. I didn't believe him because of our gun laws. You cannot own one without the required permits. Andy said he bought it for $35 and brought it back in his suitcase when he was in Buffalo. He didn't really give it much thought.

"Revolvers were not uncommon around Capreol back then." He told me.

He showed it to me one day. After that, I had no reason to doubt him.

One day, in his 83rd year, Andy dropped by unexpectedly at my house. I suspect he was bored, but he said he was curious about the reloading I did. Would I show him?

I took him into the basement and described, in general terms, how everything worked. He spent a couple of hours looking at my stuff and asked questions. About an hour before supper he announced that he had seen enough.

“It doesn’t look like anything that I’d like to do.”

I offered to reload some 30-30 or 303 British for him. He said no. If everybody reloaded, it would put people out of work. We never talked about it again.

From then, until his wife’s passing in 2008, we saw each other at the gun club every week. I also made it a point to drop by his house regularly to see if there was anything that needed doing. Andy was in good health, but I didn’t want him doing anything too strenuous. Andy would smile and thank me for the concern, but he said everything was fine.

Doctors say that our brains do not age. We think the same way that we did when we were 20, but our bodies start wearing out. Marie always phoned when they needed help. I would go over and feign surprise. “Boy, I’m glad I dropped by!” Marie would smile and Andy would grumble. “Never mind, Andy. Let Ed do it.” And that was the end of any protests.

In 2008, Andy’s attitude changed. Marie died in April, and I tried to keep him busy, but I could tell he missed her deeply. You cannot be married to someone for 66 years and not be crushed when they pass away.

He moped around for a couple of months when his daughter Tammy stepped in.

“No arguments, Dad. You’re moving in with Al and me. Frankly, we could use an extra pair of hands. And of course, Ed is welcome to visit anytime.”

When Tammy said that, Andy looked beaten. I think he realized that most of his life was behind him. I felt sadder for him at that moment than on the day he passed away. It’s a realization that we all must face, but until that day, I never saw him look so forlorn. The only thing he said was,

"I hope your mother is there to greet me, when I get to the other side."

His melancholy lasted for a while, but he seemed to bounce back by late summer. Andy looked forward to hunting season. Honestly, there wasn’t a year when he didn’t take a moose or a deer.

Andy hunted up until two years before he died. In 2010, he dropped a 1,000 lb moose with three shots from his 1895 303 lever.

He told us, "I didn't need the other two shots. You know I hate wasting ammunition, but I didn't know how many hunts I have left. Besides, I needed a picture." And he grinned.

That picture of Andy with his moose, lever in hand, had his daughter, son in law and me on either side of him. We made copies for everyone. It is one of my special treasures.

I think I should end the story here. God granted him a peaceful passing. Andy died in his sleep in July, 2012. He was probably dreaming about the fall season, and having his wife Marie, daughter Tammy, and son in law Al at hunt camp. I hope I was in his dream too.

His was a life well lived. We should all be that lucky.

That was a wonderful couple of stories, thank you Sir.

You're welcome.

We need a break from the endless COVID coverage and 6.5 CM stories.

So very well done Steve, thank you.

I ain't caught the Creedmoor Virus yet.

Thanks.

CM-19 has been out for a while, but I was innoculated by a Swede, so I'm immune. I do have Grendel Gut though.

Steve Enjoy both of the stories and I can relate having past 4 score plus and having started life on a homestead in (Western Canada) Alberta to be exact. So it rings very true. Cheers NC

Thank you. Some of my family worked the mines and the railroads in and around Sudbury. The characters were fictitious, but were based on real people.

Great story. Thank you.

Thank you for the great story. You've got the gift for sure!!

great story,have had a few old friends like this myself ,most have past also. one very old friend left me his favorite rifle 30-06 Winchester Pre64 ,another great old friend left me a custom over/under Weatherby shotgun he converted to a 22 hornet/12 gauge and its very accurate too. both these grand old guys had such talents,as did my uncle they were a lose to the world with what they knew about guns and ammo. THANKS FOR A GREAT STORY ! Pete53

Great story. Miss stories like these from the hunting magazines 20 years bc ago growing up. Need more of this and less chasing happiness with new stuff. Keep posting them up.

David

Thanks. Unfortunately, most magazines publish what generates interest with their readers and therefore, what makes advertisers money. Magazines and online articles seem to be more businesslike now (give me the facts!). But it's because of who is reading. Unless it's a story about how the hunt in the rain for example, most people don't care about the weather, the number of people at your deer camp, or any of the social aspects of the hunt. They want to know which factory ammunition, rifle or scope works the best and any other pertinent info.

I have heard a few reasons why this is, but I believe that people are more techy, and not as savvy about hunting, so they want to know what pieces of gear will increase their odds of success. More people live in the city and have less time to hunt as well. There are more gadgets around, but one has to wonder whether a laser range finder, copper bullets, a gps or an expensive optical device will make them successful in the field. Really, it doesn't matter. It only matters what they think will make them successful, and how much they are willing to spend to buy that success..

I miss the stories as well, but we are no longer in the cash demographic.