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The pleasures of .22 handguns: the .22 handgun came first and has endured
Guns Magazine, August, 2005 by Holt Bodinson
When I was eight, I wanted, no--I needed--a BB gun in the worst way. The gang I hung around with were all three years older, and each and every one owned a Red Ryder or a Daisy Model 25 pump. As it turned out, my grandfather was my salvation.
While closing down his hardware store, he came across a lot of ancient, unsold loot that he thought his grandson might find handy--there was a metal Winchester brand fly rod and bait casting rod, a bunch of Winchester-brand bass plugs and pocket knives, a Hazard Powder watch fob with a flying duck on it, and a carton of Robin Hood-brand .22 ammunition. The later was handed to me on the sly in a plain brown paper bag.
Of course, I didn't have a twenty-two, but I knew someone who did and he owned a Red Ryder. It was a clean swap. He got the ammo, and I snuck home with the BB gun that was immediately stashed behind some garden tools.
Rising at sunup the next day, I took my beloved Daisy and stalked ducks on the village pond. Later that day, a nice old lady reported to my mother that she saw someone who looked an awful lot like me chasing ducks around on the pond with a BB gun in hand.
Busted!
To make a long story short, my father discovered the Red Ryder while reaching for a hoe, unscrewed and trashed the inner BB barrel, handed me back what was now a big cork gun, and told me I would never have another BB gun until I learned to respect guns and game.
He stuck to his guns because the next thing I knew he was teaching me to shoot his Iver Johnson "Super Sealed Eight" .22 revolver. A real twenty-two! A classy looking break-open with an elegant contoured barrel, crisp trigger, adjustable sights and eight chambers.
Now you might question the sanity of a father training an eight-year-old boy to shoot a revolver. He did because he understood a handgun demands the utmost attention to be handled safely. It takes concentration and discipline to keep the muzzle of a short-barreled handgun always pointed in a safe direction. In his mind, after you had learned to handle and respect a real gun, and a handgun being a real difficult gun, then you might be permitted to graduate to a BB gun.
When autumn arrived and the small game season opened, dad took down his Fox Sterlingworth and handed me a holstered Iver Johnson. No nine-year-old could have been more proud or possessed, so they stuck me out on one end or the other of the driving line as the men swept across the fields after pheasants and rabbits. I was restricted to rabbits, which were mostly running. Much to the amusement of the adults on line, I could rattle off eight shots so fast at a running bunny it sounded like a Tommy gun. I never did hit a running rabbit.
Dead Shot Ma
My mother on the other hand was a Dead Shot, if one shot, can be considered, a Dead Shot. But she was a Texan and all Texans are Dead Shots, of course. Dad and I were down at the dump shooting rats and tin cans one evening with the Iver Johnson, and mother happened along. Dad asked her if she would like to shoot, and since she was from Texas, that was all it took.
Placing a bottle in the crotch of a nearby tree, dad passed her the Iver Johnson. Cocking it, she just about hip shot that bottle out of the tree. Passing the Iver Johnson back to her husband, without so much of a word, she never shot another shot during their long and happy marriage. I suspect that's what the reputations of Dead Shots are built on.
I still have that old Iver Johnson. It's a fine piece of machinery. Stoked with Winchester Power Points, it will place all eight chambers in one inch at 25 yards, or roll a tin can, or bag a rabbit if it's standing still. Swedes do know how to make guns.
Boomers and Poppers
I recently fired a .500 S&W, and it reminded me of how much I really enjoy shooting twenty-two handguns. And I have my favorites. I like my S&W K-22 and Ruger Target models for bull's-eye punching, my tiny Ruger Bearcat for casual plinking along the trail, and my 8 3/8" barreled S&W .22 Magnum when I get the blood lust for small game and coyotes. And I'll tell you, those open sights really sharpen up when the barrel is stretched out there to 8 3/8"!
Although you may own most of the centerfires, you'll get more beneficial practice and more pleasure from rimfire handguns than any other. They leave absolutely nothing to be desired in terms of accuracy. You can shoot them all day for pennies. They don't wreck your wrist or numb your hand. They're perfect for family fun and outings, and twenty-two revolvers will devour everything from BB caps to shotshells.
They've been with us since 1857 when Horace Smith and Daniel Wesson produced their first wheel gun, the S&W Model No. 1, in, wouldn't you know it, the revolutionary, new .22 Short. I have a hunch they will continue to be with us for a Long, long time. Enjoy 'em.
COPYRIGHT 2005 Publishers' Development Corporation
COPYRIGHT 2005 Gale Group
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