The Thanksgiving I Shot My Uncle Harry (Almost)
Dennis Copson
November 20, 2007
They called it a near miss, but I called it terrifying. I had just nearly killed my Uncle Harry!
After fifty years, I still clearly remember the incident. It occurred when I was about twelve years old and had just begun to be allowed to hunt with the men in my family. Traditionally, every Thanksgiving eve the farm chores were done up early and the guys would head off for a late afternoon deer hunt before dark. This was the first year I was included. I felt grown up. And I had a rifle, too, an heirloom Winchester 38-40 caliber made in the late 1800’s and still a damned good deer rifle. Short barrel and stock, light, and a short range power packer. Perfect for a young fella like myself.
With a hunting party of five, we proceeded on the dirt road between the barns to the fields and apple orchard in the distance. All the others had loaded their rifles before leaving the yard. For some reason I had not. As usual, I was late in joining the group having been dilly dallying as young boys are wont to do.
You’ll be late to your own funeral,” my older brother Burt always said. I never got it. At my age funerals were the farthest thing from my mind. Until that day, that is.
I hurried behind the men while reaching into my worn red plaid wool hunting jacket pocket for the shells to the rifle. I dug out a handful, maybe six, and proceeded to slip them into the rifle one by one. I pulled the lever down to inject a shell into the chamber so as to be ready in case a deer jumped up from the brush along the path.
I was clearly in violation of all the rules of gun safety I had been taught since I first handled guns at about age six: I was walking and loading; I was pointing the muzzle down and at someone rather than up and away from all possible human targets; I wasn’t paying close attention while handling a rifle. I was, in short, a danger to all with a loaded gun in my hands. I had set myself up for ‘Murphy’s Law’ to show itself.
As I jacked the round into the chamber – with my right forefinger errantly on the trigger - the rifle discharged. The sound was deafening since we were between two buildings. And it was a cold afternoon to boot. I saw a large clump of dirt kick up from the ground directly in front of and slightly to the right of my Uncle Harry. I just knew I had killed him and would catch hell for it. I froze in place – not from the cold – but with a fear I had never experienced.
Everyone in the hunting party just stood still like in freeze frame mode in a movie. No one moved; everyone was looking straight back at me with surprised and somewhat angry expressions. I was dead meat. Probably get pummeled and banned from the hunting party for life. I instantly knew so.
Everyone, that is, except my almost target - and fatality - Uncle Harry. He stopped walking only for a split second, shrugged, look back at me and calmly muttered “Geez, never do that!” and continued on unfazed.
After fifty years, I still clearly remember the incident. It occurred when I was about twelve years old and had just begun to be allowed to hunt with the men in my family. Traditionally, every Thanksgiving eve the farm chores were done up early and the guys would head off for a late afternoon deer hunt before dark. This was the first year I was included. I felt grown up. And I had a rifle, too, an heirloom Winchester 38-40 caliber made in the late 1800’s and still a damned good deer rifle. Short barrel and stock, light, and a short range power packer. Perfect for a young fella like myself.
With a hunting party of five, we proceeded on the dirt road between the barns to the fields and apple orchard in the distance. All the others had loaded their rifles before leaving the yard. For some reason I had not. As usual, I was late in joining the group having been dilly dallying as young boys are wont to do.
You’ll be late to your own funeral,” my older brother Burt always said. I never got it. At my age funerals were the farthest thing from my mind. Until that day, that is.
I hurried behind the men while reaching into my worn red plaid wool hunting jacket pocket for the shells to the rifle. I dug out a handful, maybe six, and proceeded to slip them into the rifle one by one. I pulled the lever down to inject a shell into the chamber so as to be ready in case a deer jumped up from the brush along the path.
I was clearly in violation of all the rules of gun safety I had been taught since I first handled guns at about age six: I was walking and loading; I was pointing the muzzle down and at someone rather than up and away from all possible human targets; I wasn’t paying close attention while handling a rifle. I was, in short, a danger to all with a loaded gun in my hands. I had set myself up for ‘Murphy’s Law’ to show itself.
As I jacked the round into the chamber – with my right forefinger errantly on the trigger - the rifle discharged. The sound was deafening since we were between two buildings. And it was a cold afternoon to boot. I saw a large clump of dirt kick up from the ground directly in front of and slightly to the right of my Uncle Harry. I just knew I had killed him and would catch hell for it. I froze in place – not from the cold – but with a fear I had never experienced.
Everyone in the hunting party just stood still like in freeze frame mode in a movie. No one moved; everyone was looking straight back at me with surprised and somewhat angry expressions. I was dead meat. Probably get pummeled and banned from the hunting party for life. I instantly knew so.
Everyone, that is, except my almost target - and fatality - Uncle Harry. He stopped walking only for a split second, shrugged, look back at me and calmly muttered “Geez, never do that!” and continued on unfazed.
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