During a conversation with my brother, he brought up the Lancaster 4 barrelled pistol (and I won’t explain HOW we even got onto that topic; it just unfolds that way between brothers—our discussions leap from one subject to another in ways that likely make no sense to outsiders). Once I got home, I decided to look it up, and after browsing a few more websites, I stumbled upon an American one that specializes in firearms.
In my younger days, I went through a phase where I was captivated by medieval weaponry, black powder arms, and firearms from before 1900. I explored the website and discovered they also offered walking sticks and umbrellas having concealed swords. I sometimes think there’s something rather odd about my interests, yet I find the concept (rather than the reality) of an umbrella sword incredibly appealing—thanks to the influence of the Avengers. This train of thought meandered to memories of my great uncle Richard, affectionately referred to as Dick (RIP), who resided in a rather isolated small town far from civilization. As he and his wife aged, they became increasingly troubled by shady individuals who would drive down their lengthy unpaved road (without regard for the closed gate or “private” signage) to either pester them with lowball offers for yard items or simply attempt theft, particularly when their Rottweiler, Doberman, and surprisingly, the Jack Russell (who was the true pack leader) were absent. He used to securely store his shotguns in accordance with legal regulations—except for one that was kept (unloaded) under his bed, with shells stored in his bedside drawer. After previously warning some unwelcome visitors to “get off my land,” he was startled by the sound of a car approaching the lane at midnight. Struggling with rheumatoid arthritis at that point, he loaded the shotgun while still in bed, opened the window, and fired a shot into the air. He claimed he could tell by the sound that the vehicle quickly reversed away.
This also reminded me of his parrot, which could announce “Time to get up Dick.” Upon his passing, the family had to find a new home for the bird.
I’m not quite sure why I penned this down; it’s merely a rambling, nonsensical recollection.
by Jim Aborwhear
