|
| |
The Outdoors
With Family Series
Part Two
Hoppe’s #9
Some rocket scientist somewhere said once that the sense of
smell was one of the strongest links to our memories. Well, I never was really any good at classroom biology, just
that in the back seat of a 1964 Chevy Belair type of biology.
But that was when all kinds of senses were all aflame, all but the common
type.
If different types of ‘smells’ can imprint a spot forever in our brains am I
strange that one of my favorites is Hoppe’s #9? How did this happen? When
did it happen? Is there a cure?
Do I want one? I’m confused!
Let’s go way back in my childhood to when I first become addicted to this oh,
so awesome solvent. I enjoyed the
dove and rabbit hunts my dad would take me on, and the older kid in the family
who beat me up relentlessly. I
could not explain why it felt so good to be out hunting or shooting. Nothing
could come close to the thrill of watching dad cleaning the old Remington 870
Wingmaster. Dad would open the
little brown bottle right off the bat and leave it open until the entire task of
joy was done. My dad would pick up
the golden nectar and ask me, “Do you like that smell?”
With every inch of my lungs trying to suck in all it was worth I would
just smile and nod. Dad would then
pass the little glass bottle under his own nose and say “Mmmm, you got to love
that smell”. To this day I do not
know if my dad remembers these little episodes that forever cemented my love and
devotion to him.
Being an obedient child, well a reasonable facsimile, I would not sneak in and
‘play’ with my dad’s guns. No,
not me, I enjoyed sitting down too much! But
I don’t believe any harm was done by the hundreds of trips to the brown jug.
The yellow lid would slowly be removed releasing the memory packed aroma.
Birds flew in large flocks overhead and critters scrambled all over the
desert floor with my eyes closed and that stupid smile hanging over my ears.
As years passed and I slowly grew into those ‘ears’ I reached a high
Hoppe’s point. That’s right, I
bought my first bottle. Nobody
really caught onto my crud cutter solvent crutch.
Mom would just occasionally threaten me to put the lid back on that
‘stinky stuff’. I believe this
was a deep seated jealousy against Hoppe’s #9.
She knew that not even her pepper steak and world famous mashed potatoes
could compete with the senses like ol #9.
Why I believe that even my marriage is due to Hoppe’s #9.
How’s this you say? To
find the right girl all I would do is open up a bottle in front of the ‘new’
girlfriend and sit back to see what would happen.
If the nose wrinkled and went up in the air, boom!
Next. But one day while
working on some of that ’64 back seat biology this one special girl said,
“What’s that smell?” Trying
to act cool I told her it was Hy-Karate. “Not
that, but that other smell”, she quietly said.
Oh no, here we go again. “I
was cleaning guns earlier. It’s
Hoppe’s #9”. My world felt complete when in total amazement she spoke
these words, “I like that”. Before
I could blink there I was kneeling outside of the Belair in the middle of the
drive-in asking her to marry me!
Time rushed by and gave us three small kids of our own.
When cleaning the parade of firearms through the years the kids would
gather around and watch. Anticipation would fill their eyes as they stood like little
soldiers waiting for me to ask, “Would you like to smell this?”
Little nods came quickly. Noses
were filled and small bare feet would take them off to play.
Little feet have all grown and moved away.
And I still catch myself in an empty house opening the brown bottle with
the yellow lid and breathing in. Dad,
girlfriends, hunts and little faces rush in to continue strong memories that are
always only a bottle of Hoppe’s #9 away.
Gary McCraw
AZOD Shooting Editor
Shooting@azod.com
| |
|