Remembering past glories
There was a time in my life when I was a responsible gun owner. Not what you’re thinking, NRA types. I’m Canadian. My sidearms were special: they fired caps.
At the age of six or so, part of the Christmas dream was fueled by articles sold in the Eaton’s wishbook. I know, the company sold “real” stuff, but the toy section had even neater wares on offer. In my case, a genuine Roy Rogers guns and holster set. Now, a quick search on eBay didn’t turn up anything that is (now) familiar, but I remember that the belt fit my waspish waist, and the buckle took two hands to fasten properly.
There were plastic bullets, but they didn’t require special handling or a government permit. The real noise came from a roll of “caps”, carefully threaded into the chamber and advanced by a tricky mechanism that could pinch unwary figures. Each pull of the trigger advanced on “red over black” dot, and a very satisfying BANG along with a whiff of sulphur assured the downfall of any neighbouring black hat.
There were other, similar sets, over the years. I also remember my Paladin set (again, eBay brings back nothing). What set my “Have Gun, Will Travel” equipment apart from the mundane was that tiny but Oh, So Terrible derringer. I didn’t understand the historical significance of concealed sidearms and having a second pistol was just bonus. Besides, the TV program convinced me that I was ready for action, as long as caps counted. And they were counted; when you ran out, it required heady negotiation to get more from a parent going into the city.
Now, I’ve put aside the arms of the child. Haven’t forgotten them, though.
