Tweet
Not sure this has ever been shared before, hopefully not a dupe...
continued below...
Poof-No Eyebrows!
By Patrick F. McManus
From the Book
Never Sniff A Gift Fish
Just as I was assembling the ingredients for a small snack in the kitchen, the doorbell
rang My wife, Bun, went to answer it, and I heard her invite in Milt Slapshot, a neighbor
who often seeks out my advice on matters pertaining to the sporting life.
"Is Pat home?" I heard Milt ask. "A fella told me he knows something about
muzzleloading."
Realizing Bun could never resist a straight line like that, I jumped up and headed for the
living room in the hope of stifling her.
"Does he ever!" she said, chortling. "Why, this very minute he's out in the kitchen loading
his muzzle!"
A wife who chortles is an irritation, but one who also regards herself as wit is a social
nuisance. I grabbed Milt by the arm and guided him toward the den before Bun could
embarrass the poor fellow further with another attempt at emulating Erma Bombeck.
Stop the cackling, Milt," I told him. "It only encourages her."
Once his tasteless display of mirth had subsided, Milt explained that he was building a
muzzleloader and needed some technical advice from me. A mutual acquaintance, one
Retch Sweeney, had told him that I had once conducted extensive scientific research on
primitive firearms. That was true. In fact, it would be difficult to find firearms more
primitive than those utilized in my research.
"You've come to the right man," I said. "Yes, indeed. Now the first thing I need to know
is, are you building it from a kit or from scratch?"
"A kid," Milt said.
"Good," I said. "Building muzzleloaders from scratch is a risky business, particularly
when you work your way up to sewer pipe too soon. Now the first thing . . ."
"Sewer pipe?" Milt asked. "What do you mean, sewer pipe? Are you sure you know
something about black powder?"
"Ha!" I replied. "Do you see my eyebrows?"
"No."
"Well, that should answer your question. All us experts on black powder have bald eyes."
Actually, I do have eyebrows, but they are pale, sickly fellows, never having recovered
from the shock of instant immolation thirty years ago. Having my eyebrows catch fire ranks
as one of the more interesting experiences of my life, although I must say I didn't enjoy it
much at the time.
Indeed, my somewhat faulty eyesight may be a direct result of having my eyebrows go up
in smoke. Either it was that or the splash of Orange Crush soda pop with which my sidekick
Retch Sweeney, ever quick to compound a catastrophe, doused the flames.
As I explained to Milt, who had settled into a chair in the den and was attempting with
some success to conceal his fascination, most of my early research into the mysteries of
black powder took place during the year I was fourteen. Some of those experiments
produced spectacular results, particularly the last one, which enabled Retch and me to attend
the annual Halloween party as twin cinders.
The first experiment, in which my eyebrows were sacrificed to the cause of science,
consisted of placing a small pile of black powder on a bicycle seat and touching a lighted
match to it. I can no longer recall why a bicycle seat was employed as part of the apparatus,
but I am sure my co-researcher and I had sound reasons for it at the time. In any case, we
proved conclusively that a match flame serves as an excellent catalyst on gunpowder. I later
concluded that the experiment might have been improved upon in only two ways: to have
placed the powder on Retch's bicycle seat and to have let him hold the match. Instead, he
chose to stand in awe of the experiment and about ten feet away, sucking absently on a
bottle of Orange Crush. On the other hand, my sacrifice was not without its reward, since
bald eyes and a hole burnt in my bicycle seat made great conversation openers with girls at
school.
The success of the experiment had to be withheld from the rest of the scientific
community for fear our parents would find out about it. Unfortunately, my mother
inadvertently discovered the secret.
"Is anything the matter?" Mom asked during supper the evening after the bicycle-seat
experiment.
"No," I replied casually. "Why do you ask?"
"Oh, nothing in particular," she said. "It just seems a little odd, your wearing sunglasses
and a cap at the dinner table."
She then expressed her desire that I remove both glasses and cap instantly, sooner if
possible. After some debate over the finer points of dinner-table propriety, I complied.
As expected, Mom responded with the classic question favored by the parents of young
black powder experimenters everywhere: "WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR EYEBROWS?"
Looking surprised and fingering the scorched area above my eyes, I tried to convey the
impression that it was news to me that my eyebrows were missing, as if they might have
dropped off unnoticed or been mislaid at school.
The truth was soon extracted from me with an efficiency that would have been the envy
of medieval counterintelligence agents. This was followed by a bit of parental advice. But
scarcely had this parental advice ceased reverberating among the rafters than I was already
plotting my next experiments for unlocking the mysteries of black powder.
The discovery by Retch and me that we could purchase black powder in bulk from a local
dealer was to have great impact on our lives, not to mention various parts of our anatomies.
The dealer in question was the proprietor of Grogan's War Surplus, Hardware & Gun
Emporium, none other than the old reprobate, Henry P. Grogan himself. We weren't at all
sure Grogan would sell a couple of scruffy, goof-off kids something as potentially
dangerous as black powder. Our first attempt at making a purchase was, therefore, cloaked
in subtlety and subterfuge.
"Howdy," Mr. Grogan, "we opened with, both of us so casual we were fit to burst."
"Howdy, boys. What can I do for you-assuming, of course, you got cash in your pockets
and ain't just here to finger the merchandise?"
"Oh, we got cash," I said. "Uh, Retch, why don't you read Mr. Grogan our list?"
"Uh, okay, heh, heh. Yeah, well here goes-one GI mess kit, one helmet liner, a parachute
harness, a pound of black powder, and let's see, now, do you have any of those neat
camouflage jackets left?"
To our chagrin, a look of concern came into Grogan's eyes. "Gosh, boys, I don't know if I
should . . . It just don't seem right to sell you two young fellows . . . Oh, what the heck!
Elmer Peabody wanted me to save those last two camouflage jackets for him, but I'll let you
have 'em. Now how much gunpowder was that you wanted--a pound?"
In all fairness to Grogan, I must admit that he did warn us that severe bodily harm could
result from improper use of the black powder. His exact words, if I remember correctly,
were, "You boys set off any of that stuff near my store and I'll peel your hides!"
The black powder we bought from Grogan had been compressed by the manufacturer into
shiny black pellets, a form intended, I believe, to make it less volatile. Even before mashing
them into powder, we found it was possible to touch off the pellets if they were first piled on
a bicycle seat and a match held to them. The pellets did not ignite immediately even then,
apparently for the purpose of tricking the person holding the match into taking a closer look
at what was occurring on the bicycle seat. Then--poof!--no eyebrows.
Our first muzzleloaders were small and crude, but as our technological skill and
knowledge increased, they gradually became large and crude. We never did develop a
satisfactory triggering mechanism. On the average shot, you could eat a sandwich between
the time the trigger was pulled and the gun discharged. A typical muzzleloader test would
go something like this:
RETCH: Okay, I'm going to squeeze the trigger now. There!
MUZZLELOADER: Snick! Pop! Ssssss . . .
ME: Good. It looks like it's working. Better start aiming at the tin can.
MUZZLELOADER: Ssss . . .fizt . . .sss . . .
RETCH: Say, give me a bit of that sandwich, will you?
ME: Sure.
MUZZLELOADER: . . .sss . . .sput . . . ss . . . putt . . . ss . . .
RETCH: What time is it?
ME: About time for me to--
MUZZLELOADER: . . . ssst--POOT!
RETCH: (enveloped in cloud of smoke): How was my aim?
ME: I think it was pretty good, but the muzzle velocity leaves something to be desired. As
soon as the smoke clears, reach over and pick up the ball and we'll load her up again.
Even as we increased the range of our muzzleloaders, the delay in the firing mechanism
discouraged us from using them on game. If we had used one of them for rabbit hunting,
say, we would have had to squeeze the trigger and then hope a rabbit would happen to be
running by when the gun discharged. Squeezing the trigger before your game appears over
the far horizon is the ultimate in leading a moving target.
Since we had up to three minutes of lead time on stationary targets, hunting with our
muzzleloaders seemed somewhat impractical. There was also the probable embarrassment
of having our shots bounce off the game. It didn't seem worth the risk. A hunter can stand
only so much humiliation.
Our first muzzleloader was a small-caliber derringer, the ammunition for which consisted
mostly of dried peas. This prompted Retch to remark derisively to a tin-can target, "All
right, Ringo, drop your iron or I'll fill you full of dried peas."
"Okay, okay," I said, "I get your drift. We'll move up to the hard stuff--marbles, ball
bearings, golf balls."
It was a mistake, though, and I knew it. Once you start escalating, there's no stopping
until you achieve the ultimate weapon. Within a couple of months, we were turning out
muzzleloaders in the .80-caliber range. Then we got into the large-caliber stuff. Finally, we
decided the time had come to stop monkeying around with black powder pistols and rifles.
We'd had some close calls. We had reached a point where there was some doubt in our
minds whether we might be firing a muzzleloader or touching off a bomb. Thus it was with
considerable relief that we abandoned our clandestine manufacture and testing of pistols and
rifles. After all, a cannon would be much safer; you didn't have to hold it.
The cannon was constructed of sewer pipe, tow-by-fours, baby-carriage wheels, rubber
inner-tube bands, a clothespin, baling wire, and various other odds and ends, all of which,
blending into a single, symmetrical unity, neared perfection on the scale of beauty. A
croquet ball was commandeered from the Sweeney backyard for the use as shot. In our
enthusiasm of the moment, it was thought the croquet ball could be returned to the set after
it was recovered from the firing range. Alas, it was not to be so.
Attired in our muskrat-skin hats, which we had sewn up ourselves, we mounted our
bicycles and, with cannon in tow, wet off for the local golf course, where a fairway would
serve as a firing range, a putting green as a target.
As we had hoped, the golf course turned out to be deserted. We quickly wheeled the
cannon into firing position and began the loading procedure.
"Think that's enough powder?" Retch asked.
"Better dump in some more," I advised. "That croquet ball is pretty heavy."
"And there's some for good measure," Retch said.
The croquet ball fit a little too tightly, but we managed to ram it down the barrel.
Then we both took up positions alongside the cannon to witness the rare and wonderful
spectacle of a sewer pipe firing a croquet ball down a golf-course fairway.
"Ready, aim, fire!" I commanded.
Retch tripped the firing mechanism.
Eventually, the thunder was replaced by clanging bells inside our heads, the shattered
pieces of earth and sky fell back into place, and the wobbly world righted itself. Retch and I
limped over to the side of a utility shed and sat down to relax a bit and collect our senses.
By Patrick F. McManus
From the Book
Never Sniff A Gift Fish
Just as I was assembling the ingredients for a small snack in the kitchen, the doorbell
rang My wife, Bun, went to answer it, and I heard her invite in Milt Slapshot, a neighbor
who often seeks out my advice on matters pertaining to the sporting life.
"Is Pat home?" I heard Milt ask. "A fella told me he knows something about
muzzleloading."
Realizing Bun could never resist a straight line like that, I jumped up and headed for the
living room in the hope of stifling her.
"Does he ever!" she said, chortling. "Why, this very minute he's out in the kitchen loading
his muzzle!"
A wife who chortles is an irritation, but one who also regards herself as wit is a social
nuisance. I grabbed Milt by the arm and guided him toward the den before Bun could
embarrass the poor fellow further with another attempt at emulating Erma Bombeck.
Stop the cackling, Milt," I told him. "It only encourages her."
Once his tasteless display of mirth had subsided, Milt explained that he was building a
muzzleloader and needed some technical advice from me. A mutual acquaintance, one
Retch Sweeney, had told him that I had once conducted extensive scientific research on
primitive firearms. That was true. In fact, it would be difficult to find firearms more
primitive than those utilized in my research.
"You've come to the right man," I said. "Yes, indeed. Now the first thing I need to know
is, are you building it from a kit or from scratch?"
"A kid," Milt said.
"Good," I said. "Building muzzleloaders from scratch is a risky business, particularly
when you work your way up to sewer pipe too soon. Now the first thing . . ."
"Sewer pipe?" Milt asked. "What do you mean, sewer pipe? Are you sure you know
something about black powder?"
"Ha!" I replied. "Do you see my eyebrows?"
"No."
"Well, that should answer your question. All us experts on black powder have bald eyes."
Actually, I do have eyebrows, but they are pale, sickly fellows, never having recovered
from the shock of instant immolation thirty years ago. Having my eyebrows catch fire ranks
as one of the more interesting experiences of my life, although I must say I didn't enjoy it
much at the time.
Indeed, my somewhat faulty eyesight may be a direct result of having my eyebrows go up
in smoke. Either it was that or the splash of Orange Crush soda pop with which my sidekick
Retch Sweeney, ever quick to compound a catastrophe, doused the flames.
As I explained to Milt, who had settled into a chair in the den and was attempting with
some success to conceal his fascination, most of my early research into the mysteries of
black powder took place during the year I was fourteen. Some of those experiments
produced spectacular results, particularly the last one, which enabled Retch and me to attend
the annual Halloween party as twin cinders.
The first experiment, in which my eyebrows were sacrificed to the cause of science,
consisted of placing a small pile of black powder on a bicycle seat and touching a lighted
match to it. I can no longer recall why a bicycle seat was employed as part of the apparatus,
but I am sure my co-researcher and I had sound reasons for it at the time. In any case, we
proved conclusively that a match flame serves as an excellent catalyst on gunpowder. I later
concluded that the experiment might have been improved upon in only two ways: to have
placed the powder on Retch's bicycle seat and to have let him hold the match. Instead, he
chose to stand in awe of the experiment and about ten feet away, sucking absently on a
bottle of Orange Crush. On the other hand, my sacrifice was not without its reward, since
bald eyes and a hole burnt in my bicycle seat made great conversation openers with girls at
school.
The success of the experiment had to be withheld from the rest of the scientific
community for fear our parents would find out about it. Unfortunately, my mother
inadvertently discovered the secret.
"Is anything the matter?" Mom asked during supper the evening after the bicycle-seat
experiment.
"No," I replied casually. "Why do you ask?"
"Oh, nothing in particular," she said. "It just seems a little odd, your wearing sunglasses
and a cap at the dinner table."
She then expressed her desire that I remove both glasses and cap instantly, sooner if
possible. After some debate over the finer points of dinner-table propriety, I complied.
As expected, Mom responded with the classic question favored by the parents of young
black powder experimenters everywhere: "WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR EYEBROWS?"
Looking surprised and fingering the scorched area above my eyes, I tried to convey the
impression that it was news to me that my eyebrows were missing, as if they might have
dropped off unnoticed or been mislaid at school.
The truth was soon extracted from me with an efficiency that would have been the envy
of medieval counterintelligence agents. This was followed by a bit of parental advice. But
scarcely had this parental advice ceased reverberating among the rafters than I was already
plotting my next experiments for unlocking the mysteries of black powder.
The discovery by Retch and me that we could purchase black powder in bulk from a local
dealer was to have great impact on our lives, not to mention various parts of our anatomies.
The dealer in question was the proprietor of Grogan's War Surplus, Hardware & Gun
Emporium, none other than the old reprobate, Henry P. Grogan himself. We weren't at all
sure Grogan would sell a couple of scruffy, goof-off kids something as potentially
dangerous as black powder. Our first attempt at making a purchase was, therefore, cloaked
in subtlety and subterfuge.
"Howdy," Mr. Grogan, "we opened with, both of us so casual we were fit to burst."
"Howdy, boys. What can I do for you-assuming, of course, you got cash in your pockets
and ain't just here to finger the merchandise?"
"Oh, we got cash," I said. "Uh, Retch, why don't you read Mr. Grogan our list?"
"Uh, okay, heh, heh. Yeah, well here goes-one GI mess kit, one helmet liner, a parachute
harness, a pound of black powder, and let's see, now, do you have any of those neat
camouflage jackets left?"
To our chagrin, a look of concern came into Grogan's eyes. "Gosh, boys, I don't know if I
should . . . It just don't seem right to sell you two young fellows . . . Oh, what the heck!
Elmer Peabody wanted me to save those last two camouflage jackets for him, but I'll let you
have 'em. Now how much gunpowder was that you wanted--a pound?"
In all fairness to Grogan, I must admit that he did warn us that severe bodily harm could
result from improper use of the black powder. His exact words, if I remember correctly,
were, "You boys set off any of that stuff near my store and I'll peel your hides!"
The black powder we bought from Grogan had been compressed by the manufacturer into
shiny black pellets, a form intended, I believe, to make it less volatile. Even before mashing
them into powder, we found it was possible to touch off the pellets if they were first piled on
a bicycle seat and a match held to them. The pellets did not ignite immediately even then,
apparently for the purpose of tricking the person holding the match into taking a closer look
at what was occurring on the bicycle seat. Then--poof!--no eyebrows.
Our first muzzleloaders were small and crude, but as our technological skill and
knowledge increased, they gradually became large and crude. We never did develop a
satisfactory triggering mechanism. On the average shot, you could eat a sandwich between
the time the trigger was pulled and the gun discharged. A typical muzzleloader test would
go something like this:
RETCH: Okay, I'm going to squeeze the trigger now. There!
MUZZLELOADER: Snick! Pop! Ssssss . . .
ME: Good. It looks like it's working. Better start aiming at the tin can.
MUZZLELOADER: Ssss . . .fizt . . .sss . . .
RETCH: Say, give me a bit of that sandwich, will you?
ME: Sure.
MUZZLELOADER: . . .sss . . .sput . . . ss . . . putt . . . ss . . .
RETCH: What time is it?
ME: About time for me to--
MUZZLELOADER: . . . ssst--POOT!
RETCH: (enveloped in cloud of smoke): How was my aim?
ME: I think it was pretty good, but the muzzle velocity leaves something to be desired. As
soon as the smoke clears, reach over and pick up the ball and we'll load her up again.
Even as we increased the range of our muzzleloaders, the delay in the firing mechanism
discouraged us from using them on game. If we had used one of them for rabbit hunting,
say, we would have had to squeeze the trigger and then hope a rabbit would happen to be
running by when the gun discharged. Squeezing the trigger before your game appears over
the far horizon is the ultimate in leading a moving target.
Since we had up to three minutes of lead time on stationary targets, hunting with our
muzzleloaders seemed somewhat impractical. There was also the probable embarrassment
of having our shots bounce off the game. It didn't seem worth the risk. A hunter can stand
only so much humiliation.
Our first muzzleloader was a small-caliber derringer, the ammunition for which consisted
mostly of dried peas. This prompted Retch to remark derisively to a tin-can target, "All
right, Ringo, drop your iron or I'll fill you full of dried peas."
"Okay, okay," I said, "I get your drift. We'll move up to the hard stuff--marbles, ball
bearings, golf balls."
It was a mistake, though, and I knew it. Once you start escalating, there's no stopping
until you achieve the ultimate weapon. Within a couple of months, we were turning out
muzzleloaders in the .80-caliber range. Then we got into the large-caliber stuff. Finally, we
decided the time had come to stop monkeying around with black powder pistols and rifles.
We'd had some close calls. We had reached a point where there was some doubt in our
minds whether we might be firing a muzzleloader or touching off a bomb. Thus it was with
considerable relief that we abandoned our clandestine manufacture and testing of pistols and
rifles. After all, a cannon would be much safer; you didn't have to hold it.
The cannon was constructed of sewer pipe, tow-by-fours, baby-carriage wheels, rubber
inner-tube bands, a clothespin, baling wire, and various other odds and ends, all of which,
blending into a single, symmetrical unity, neared perfection on the scale of beauty. A
croquet ball was commandeered from the Sweeney backyard for the use as shot. In our
enthusiasm of the moment, it was thought the croquet ball could be returned to the set after
it was recovered from the firing range. Alas, it was not to be so.
Attired in our muskrat-skin hats, which we had sewn up ourselves, we mounted our
bicycles and, with cannon in tow, wet off for the local golf course, where a fairway would
serve as a firing range, a putting green as a target.
As we had hoped, the golf course turned out to be deserted. We quickly wheeled the
cannon into firing position and began the loading procedure.
"Think that's enough powder?" Retch asked.
"Better dump in some more," I advised. "That croquet ball is pretty heavy."
"And there's some for good measure," Retch said.
The croquet ball fit a little too tightly, but we managed to ram it down the barrel.
Then we both took up positions alongside the cannon to witness the rare and wonderful
spectacle of a sewer pipe firing a croquet ball down a golf-course fairway.
"Ready, aim, fire!" I commanded.
Retch tripped the firing mechanism.
Eventually, the thunder was replaced by clanging bells inside our heads, the shattered
pieces of earth and sky fell back into place, and the wobbly world righted itself. Retch and I
limped over to the side of a utility shed and sat down to relax a bit and collect our senses.
Comment