THE FLUES

Frank Shaw

Hunting buddies are rare--mentors even more so.  The gentleman who introduced me to bird hunting, Frank Shaw, passed away a few years  ago and I still miss him.  He was brilliant and a bit of a 'loose cannon' at times, but the waitresses loved him--especially when he tipped them generously using two dollar bills.  In his second career, he was in charge of a small USPS  post office and people would drive an extra couple of miles just to do business with him.  He was a people person.  It seemed as if everyone knew and loved him.

One fall day, when Frank and I were at a gun shop in Whitefield, NH,  the owner handed me a double barreled shotgun and said, "You're a 'double guy', how would you like this one?  I'll give you a good price."  He handed me a shotgun with about a four inch wooden extension built onto the butt. (He said that it belonged to a very tall gentleman.)  I already owned doubles in 12, 20 and 28 gauge.  I was wrestling with whether or not I really wanted a '16'--"After all," I reasoned, "today's twenty will do basically the same job as the sixteen".  I brought it up towards my shoulder and the butt slammed into my armpit.  I was thinking, "I don't know...."

After a few moments of what must have been extreme patience on his part, Frank said, "Let me see that."  I said something like, "Okay." and handed him the shotgun.  He turned to the store owner and said "I'll take it."   Just like that, my buddy bought the shotgun out from underneath me. 

He made it into a little project.  He cut the wood extension off the butt stock and replaced the Ithaca recoil pad.  Where there was a large chip in the butt stock, he took the dust from his 'surgery' and  made a "resin" paste  and filled in the stock.  In general, he cleaned up the gun and made it usable. Occasionally, he took it out of the cabinet and hunted with it.  He and I had a running "joke" about how he got 'tired of me trying to make up my mind', so he bought it.  I acted like it bothered me.

Time went on.  A few years ago, he came down with cancer.  The VA doctors couldn't do anything to stop it.  After a stay at the VA Hospital in Boston, he made his way home to prepare for his own trip across the  "rainbow bridge".  As I sat by his recliner and we recounted our many little adventures, I had the chance to tell him "Thanks".  It was then that he told me that he was leaving me the Ithaca "Flues".  I said, "Geez Frank, I didn't want it that way, I'd rather go hunting with you and you use it."  "I know" he said, "but that's not in the cards, 'Bud'."

He passed away amongst friends and family. He was cremated, and his ashes were placed in a small locker.  I had to chortle--a US Army veteran and retired postmaster being buried in a VA cemetery in what looked like a post-office box--it seemed somewhat like poetic justice.

So now I possess the 16 gauge Ithaca Flues.  It was manufactured in 1911, and fits me unusually well.  So much in fact, that I wonder if Frank wasn't setting it up for me all those days.  The story and flood of memories are worth more to me than the gun itself--especially as I wonder, "Who will watch over it when 'my time' comes?" 

For now, I'm satisfied to bask in reveries of colorful autumns  and let the feelings wash over me like  warm waves from the South Pacific.

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