Sometimes, we find treasures when we least expect it. At a recent gun show, I was perusing several tables filled with a collection of old and interesting guns that were being offered for sale. As I carefully combed through the antique Winchesters, Marlins, boxed Colts, and old Rugers, my eyes were drawn to a rather plain, worn, white box tucked amidst the finery. It was a brick of Winchester-Western Wildcats, that company’s entry-level offering of .22 Long Rifle ammunition.
Amidst all the expensive and rare items on those tables, I was drawn to this box more than anything else. I picked it up and confirmed what I suspected when I first had seen it. Based on the battered price tag that was partially peeling off the box, these Wildcats were well over 20 years old and the same vintage as when my dad taught me to shoot.
One fine afternoon, before I was 10 years old, my dad asked me if I wanted to go shooting with him. Boy, did I ever! We went into his closet, where the guns and ammo were kept, and dug out a .22 rifle and revolver. Then, I watched with excitement as he pulled out a large white box and removed two smaller boxes from it. Each of these smaller boxes had a picture of a bobcat on it and “Wildcat 22” written in large blue letters. Each box held 50 rounds of 22 Long Rifle ammunition. He handed me the two boxes, asking me to carry them as we headed out of the house.
We walked about a quarter mile down the road to a large dirt bank that served as a trash dump for the area. My family never dumped anything there, and I never actually saw anyone else dumping anything, but people had left all kinds of old furniture, unwanted clothing, and countless bags of garbage. Strewn about the place were also hundreds of cans of all descriptions – targets of all shapes and sizes, ours for the taking.
On this day, and many more like it, my dad and I would carefully set up rows of cans on the dirt bank, step back about ten yards, sometimes more, and then the fun began. He would carefully instruct me on proper gun safety. He demonstrated how to load and unload the guns, and then required I show him how to do it so that he knew I had learned. He taught me proper sight picture, breath control, and how to squeeze the trigger so that I would actually hit my target. Those cans sure didn’t have much to fear in the early days. But, I got better.
After a while, he started having me aim at particular parts of a can, rather than just at the can itself. He would tell me, “See if you can hit the ‘o’ on that Coke can.” I would try. I often failed, but it sure was fun to see that can dance, even if the hole in it wasn’t exactly where I was aiming.
My dad was a busy man. He worked hard to provide for his seven children and there was always something that needed fixing around the house. Seven kids make a lot of messes and break a lot of things. But, every once in a while, sometimes at my request and sometimes out of the blue, he would go to the closet and get out a couple boxes of Wildcats and ask, “Do you want to go shooting?” My answer was never “No.”
All of these memories, and many more, flooded back to me at the gun show as I held that non-descript white box with the running bobcat on it. Sure, I can still buy Wildcats from many stores, but how long it had been since I had last seen some that probably sat on the shelf in a Woolworth’s store when I was a boy. The man at the table and I quickly made a deal and I took my treasure home.
My intent when I bought these Wildcats was to put the box on my desk as a reminder of all the good times I had at that dirt bank with my dad. However, coming home to three young sons excited to see me after the gun show changed my mind. Like every other boy on God’s earth, they need Wildcat memories, too. I think, every once in a while, I’ll take a box or two of them out and call to my sons, “Do you want to go shooting?”
![[image]](http://i76.photobucket.com/albums/j12/cubrock/wildcats1.jpg)
