For as long as I can remember, I have been fascinated with guns and explosives. When I was just a little boy, living in Eager, the grocery store sold firecrackers around July the 4th celebration. We hunted around in the barns for eggs, which we could exchange for firecrackers. To us, these were magical things, which could make wonderful things happen. We sent cans high into the air, blew up ant hills, determined who was the bravest by holding one carefully in your fingers until it exploded, stunning the tips of your fingers, but never crying, or showing pain. To just light and throw one was a wasteful act. Those wonderful bangs required careful planning. Dad gave me a 22 rifle for Christmas when I was about 13, and he and Uncle Joe Chesley took me out in the desert, where I had to wait my turn to fire at a target. It was a cold, rainy day, but one I can never forget. With that little rifle across the handle of my bicycle, a box of 22 shots in my pocket, and my dog running by my side, I would hunt in the tall cottonwood trees along Extension road and out into the desert along Lehi hill by the canal. I became an excellent shot, hitting just about anything I aimed at. Of course, I wasn't always safe, and certainly smart, escaping injury or tragedy narrowly several times. Those Guardian Angels working overtime. All though I did shoot some birds and small animals, I never really enjoyed killing things. Later in my life, I did go game hunting, but I never killed any of the things I shot at. And really, I'm glad I didn't. In Mesa, it became harder and harder to get fireworks, I would scrimp and save to order an assortment but the Post Office would always confiscate it, and I would lose my money. Ever now and then, a lucky kid in the town would get some, brought in from another state, or from across the border. We kids would suddenly be best friends, trying desperately to beg, borrow, or steal a few. Then, mysterious explosions would be heard around the neighborhood. Some old fuddy duddy would always call the Cops, and they always seemed to come to my house first. My poor mother, who never suspected that I was the culprit, innocently protected a very guilty son on more occasions than I want to remember. At Mesa High, one of my favorite classes was chemistry. Now I could make my own explosives. I made smoke bombs, bombs, and rockets. I created an explosive powder from sugar and saltpeter, which produced wondrous explosions, terrorized the neighborhood. No one dared report me, and the cops were afraid to come around. This may be an exaggeration, but I did get away with a lot. I think it was the summer of my junior year in high school, my buddies and I decide to take a little camping trip up in the White Mountains. We decided that it would be neat to make a bomb. Since I was the expert, we stopped in Show Low at a hardware store to see what we could find for the parts. A large piece of plumbing pipe caught my eye, and so we bought that and screw on caps for each end. The drug store provided the rest of what we needed and so we continued on our way to Eager. Among the tall pines we set up camp and prepared the World's first pipe bomb, at least the first one I ever heard of. When I was ready, we placed it in a deep hole and moved a large rock over it. After lighting a long fuse, we all ran and hid behind the trees. When we had just about figured the fuse must have gone out,and we began to peer out at the spot, the earth shook, among smoke and pine needles we gazed at the hole, now much larger than before. We stood around looking at small pieces of metal embedded in the hole, when we remembered the rock. It was nowhere to be seen. As we stood around the trees, a breaking of branches followed by a loud thud. I cannot tell how high that boulder had gone, but at least a half a minute had gone by since the explosion, and probably longer, before that thing came down. If it had come down where we stood, it would have killed us. This was the year before the Russians orbited Sputnik, and we boys nearly beat them to it.
Homemade guns were also very nearly my downfall. From small BB firing zip guns, 12 gauge shot gun pistols, to black powder weapons, I make them all. Using a piece of pipe for a barrel, my shot gun pistol was something to behold. I took it down to my friend Karl's for it's first shot. Now old Karl had a large Chinaberry tree in front of his house and with him watching, I aimed at the tree and pulled the trigger. When the smoke cleared, only a small piece of wooden handle was in my bruised hand, the leaves fell like rain, and Karl was looking for holes in his body, sure that at least one of us was dead. Perhaps that piece of pipe, it may be one of those pieces of space junk you always hear about. I'm sure those Guardian Angels were again hard at work. in my later years I continued to enjoy firearms. Antique black powder guns have been my special interest, and I have really enjoyed working on, and shooting them. After my blindness, I learned to shoot by sound. Placing a bell over the target. It was also great therapy to build replicas of antique firearms from kits. When this became too expensive, arrangements were made with a local gun shop to sell my creations. When I test these guns by firing them out of the front door, the neighbors still shake their heads and say, "old crazy P.J. is still around."
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