By Tank Hoover

Everyone loves trigger time. What we’re talking about here is not the type you initially think of when you hear those words—the mechanism used to drop the hammer or release a firing pin—but the type which releases the sear and sizzle of life, triggering emotions from our past. We all have ’em, be they a song, a perfume or a certain restaurant you dined at with a loved one. Those of you battling bouts of insomnia, this story will be pleasing to you … .

One of my earliest triggers is a bronze statue clock in the shape of a horse. I saw it in the estate sale of my grandmother when she passed. I remember being a young buckaroo of no more than 4 or 5 years old. During holiday visits, I remember seeing the bronze horse clock sitting on top of a lace doily on top of her cabinet color TV. Sundays were a big night back then! The Wonderful World of Disney was on, and such shows as Davy Crocket and Daniel Boone were frequently shown. Fess Parker would play both roles. There were only two or three channels back then, but what wonderful shows! This is so different than today with our hundreds of channels with nothing but mind-numbing reality shows about society’s buffoons.

The trigger of my first gun was a big one! It was an H&R Plainsman .22 rifle. I got it for my 8th birthday. It means a lot to me. It showed my parents thought I was responsible enough to be trusted with a firearm. Roaming the fields and woods of my grandparent’s farm was great adventure as I learned to be comfortable exploring by myself. It also reminds me of an impetuous past, installing sling swivels into the hard birch stock. Big chunks of wood are missing from using a too-small drill bit and too much pressure turning the screws to secure them. I was going to repair it, but I decided to leave it alone and keep the memories.

Time Marches On …

My next trigger is when I graduated the Police Academy. I’m issued a Ruger Service Six in .38 Spl. Our department badge is engraved on the side panel. The load we carried was the FBI load of +P .38 Spl. loaded with a lead 158-grain SWCHP. I still have an ammo can full of this ammunition and the gun. Five years later we transitioned to 9mm Beretta 92D’s … .Times change.

Seems like a blink of an eye, and my 27 years has come and gone. Young men wishing we were old, so we can retire. Now we are old men wishing for our youth, when we were young, strong, tough, and invincible. Now, we get monthly notices of the toughest cops we worked with, dying at too young an age … .

Badges and credentials are all you have for your service. You remember pinning your badge on the day you are sworn in. Like you, it is new, bright, shiny. The weight surprises you. Some think it heavy, others thought it would be heavier? After 27 years, it is now dull, tarnished, beat up—like you. Your retirement badge is brand spanking new as you wonder,” what now?” You look at your rookie credentials and wonder, “Was I ever really that young?” Your retirement ID shows the real story. “Wow! Why’s my face and hair look all washed out? Must be the camera setting? When did I start getting those black hairs in my ears?” Good or bad, time marches on … .

Counting the Scars

My first hunting rifle triggers wonderful moments. It’s a Remington Model 700 .30-06 and had a Weaver 4X scope mounted on it. It has killed many deer and groundhogs. It served as a big game and varmint rifle, depending on the handload. Things were simpler then. Being a one-gun hunter was cool and made your choices easy. It’s the rifle I took my biggest buck with and also the rifle I carried when my favorite uncle passed on. I remember its first scratch and being upset about it. Now, running my fingers along the scratches, gouges and blemishes, I am re-living each hunt as the memories are etched in both my rifle and my mind.

I have my Pap’s hunting coat hanging in my basement with his last hunting license still pinned on the back of it. I also have a set of his whitetail antlers and his antelope head. His dented coffee thermos, one he religiously carried during buck season, sits on an old table by that coat. I saved these treasures from the trash heap when my grandmother moved into her retirement cottage. Why would anyone throw such memories away? His hunting license reminds me we will all come to that point, sooner or later. I have the last buck rack he tagged mounted on my work-bench shelf in the garage, tag still dangling.

As I stare blankly at the screen and occasionally tickle the keys of my computer, endless cup of coffee by my side, I spew words about my past, appreciative of the life I’ve lived so far. I ponder what is in store for me in the future. I think I need to get some more Trigger Time.

Asleep yet?

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