Excerpted from ‘How to be a Pencilneck’ by Owen Garratt

CHRIS AND THE MUZZLELOADER

During summer break, my best friend Chris and I were visiting Dad on his
farm, and like boys everywhere, we got bored while Dad was out in the field so we
looked around for adventure. We were 11 or 12, and old enough to do some
substantial damage.

“No” Chris said, with finality.

“Whataya mean, ‘no’?” I asked.

“I see what you’re thinking, and it’s a bad idea.”

Dad had a black powder muzzleloader mounted on the living room wall.
It was a fully functional Hawkins replica, and firearms seemed like just the thing
to cure our boredom.

Apparently Chris didn’t like the musing look on my face as I gazed at it.

When writing these little efforts, I find that it’s a bit of a problem trying to
figure out just how much background to put in. If I charge along without
explaining about muzzleloaders to a public who isn’t familiar with them, pretty
soon I’ve got packs of baying readers snuffling for the trail. If I get too specific,
the folks who know firearms are yawning and wondering about calling it a day.

A muzzleloader is one of those old timey heavy rifles that the shooter has
to pour gunpowder down the barrel, place a lead ball at the opening, then take the
ramrod and tamp the ball down to the bottom. Then the shooter raises the rifle,
pulls back the hammer and places a sort of brass cap on a sort of a nipple with a
teensy hole in it. When the trigger is pulled, the hammer falls onto the cap, which
is filled with something that flashes. The spark shoots down the teensy hole and
ignites the powder, and the gun goes off. Then flames shoot several feet out of the

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 Excerpted from ‘How to be a Pencilneck’ by Owen Garratt

barrel, and great volumes of smoke gets everyone coughing in fits. If you recall
the style of rifle used in American Revolution films, you get the general idea.

“It’ll be fine” I said. “Dad lets me shoot all the time” I said, but I may
have neglected to add that it was always supervised.

“But this isn’t just that beat up old .22; this is his pride and joy!” Chris’s
hands got that tremor again.

“Look, it’s still just a gun, we both know proper gun safety (!) and I’ve
shot it over a million times. If Dad didn’t mind, you know dashed well he’d have
said so.”

Chris had been fighting a cold and in later years used it as his defense the
argument that his faculties hadn’t been at their sharpest during the ‘instance in
question’.

We took the rifle off of the wall, grabbed the gunpowder, balls, and
support equipment and went out into the front yard. The cool thing about these
types of guns is that you can control how much gunpowder you use on each shot.
With little kids or the infirm, you can put in one measure, which is about 30
grains, and it makes a nice little boom and lots of satisfying smoke and smiles all
around. If you’re a manly man, or an idiot, you can add up to 120 grains and bring
down the house.

I’ll admit, I may have been playing The Big Wig, and trying overly hard
to impress my buddy. We were using way too much powder and blowing the
bejeebers out of some things that, in hindsight, we maybe shouldn’t have to
shooting at. We started with the usual empty tin cans, which is a nice start to a
day of shooting, but it won’t hold you for long. This muzzleloader shot a .50
caliber ball, which is about the same size across as a man’s thumbnail, and this
makes nice big testosteroney holes.

© Owen Garratt 2009 www.pencilneck.com All Rights Res erv ed.

 Excerpted from ‘How to be a Pencilneck’ by Owen Garratt

“Maybe”, I said “we should try a full can of something”. I went inside
and came out a minute later with a liter can of tomato juice. We set it on the stone
BBQ pit that Dad had been meaning to finish for years, and blew it apart with a
terrific BLAM!

“Let me try something!!” Chris said. We went inside and came out with
cans of all sizes, bulk macaroni, canned ham, dog food, a carton of milk, cocoa
powder, cottage cheese, a head of lettuce, eggs –both soft and hard boiled, a jar of
mayonnaise, a bag of flour, baby lotion (!) empty beer bottles, bug spray, dish
soap, a great big can of ketchup, motor oil, and a full to bursting vacuum bag.

The more astute readers are no doubt wondering “How dumb are these
kids? Surely they must realize that they’ll be strung up for this.”

Yes, grasshopper…a very shrewd assessment. However, at this stage of

things, Dad was a bachelor, and had bachelor habits. He himself had shown me
the results of a .308 bullet hitting a full can of tomato juice, (complete vaporization, and

its cool!). He couldn’t very well show me that and not expect me to take up the
habit could he? In other situations, we’d have never tried to get away with
smashing perfectly good foodstuffs.

But as I said, Dad was a bachelor, and not too much of this was good
foodstuffs.

For example, there was one withered pickle left suspended in a large jar of
sickly brine. That wouldn’t be missed. The mayonnaise jar was so crusted over
that not even my 6’2’, 260 lb father was likely to crack that baby open. I figured
that sacrificing the mysterious baby lotion was doing him something of a favor. I
doubt anyone could accurately date the cocoa powder, but I knew that the labels
didn’t look like that anymore. Who can keep milk in the house with two growing
boys in it? There were probably 30 cans of beans, so how could he miss 7 or 8

© Owen Garratt 2009 www.pencilneck.com All Rights Res erv ed.

 Excerpted from ‘How to be a Pencilneck’ by Owen Garratt

tins? How many cans of smoked oysters could he possibly keep track of? The
flour smelled like an odd blend of fuggy old attic and unwashed peasant. Heck,
we were providing a service! By removing this hazardous waste, we were also
removing any chance that Dad might actually try to make something with this
muck. Yes, we’d have to cover our tracks and bury the remains in a field, but that
was a small toll. We also made sure that we rearranged the shelves to fill in the
spaces a bit, and took pride in a job well done.

Carnage reigned for nearly an hour as we waged war on Dad’s groceries.

Unidentifiable canned viscera flowed into the spilt blood of brave condiment
bottles. Clouds of powdered food mingled with the scent of gunpowder. Eggs
exploded and vanished on impact. Bits of cottage cheese fell around us like star
burst firecracker. A Jackson Pollock landscape of congealing food lay streaked
out behind the patio. War whoops sounded out across the yard.

As I was readying for my next turn, we heard the phone ring, and I handed
the rifle for Chris to finish loading it. It was Grandma, so I had to listen to all of
her ailments from the previous night.

Chris was just tamping the ball into the breech as I stepped back out into
the press of sunshine. He place the cap on the nipple, eased the hammer into the
‘safe’ position, handed me the gun, and I called my next shot. We’d discovered
that it was possible to rip open the top off of a can of beans without knocking it
over if you nicked it just right. I set my jaw, gave my eyes an Eastwood squint,
pulled back the hammer, took careful aim and squeezed the trigger.

The hammer snapped down on the cap with an anticlimactic crack, and a
small tuft of smoke floated up from the nipple. I held my position, and my breath.
Nothing happened. I lowered the rifle some and asked Chris “Did you put the
powder in?”

© Owen Garratt 2009 www.pencilneck.com All Rights Res erv ed.

 Excerpted from ‘How to be a Pencilneck’ by Owen Garratt

“No, I thought you did.”

There was a .50 caliber lead ball rammed into the breech of my Dad’s
prized muzzleloader, with no gunpowder to blow it out! At first, Chris looked like
he was giving an impression of a goldfish, but soon, panic and nausea swarmed
over him and he shrieked “What the hell are we going to do, your Dad is going to
kill us!!”

I was cool as chilled steel. On the end of the ramrod was a concaved brass
end that seated again the ball to prevent slipping as the ball was shoved down the
barrel. I knew that this end screwed off, and a sort of drill bit end could be
screwed on. This was specifically engineered to remove balls from guns whose
powder had failed to ignite due to moisture, or for dummies who hadn’t bothered
putting powder in. With a cruel silence, I calmly switched the ends on the ramrod
as Chris pulled his hair and rended his garments.

I felt the bit make contact with the ball. With a firm pressure, I twisted the
rod and felt the screw bite into the soft lead ball. Once it had reached the allowable
depth, I smiled at Chris, who looked like he could use a cheer up, and I reefed
straight up on the rod. There was a plump sucking, popping sound, and the
ramrod jerked away from the barrel.

I turned to Chris with a tuxedoed sommelier flourish, and I presented the

ramrod to him like a courteous cocktail onion on a fork.

“Viola”, I said, beaming.

I didn’t exactly expect trumpets to sound or shouts of praise or a big

emotional hug or anything, but I thought he’d have said something.

I looked up at him, to see a cocked eyebrow and a cynical blank look.

© Owen Garratt 2009 www.pencilneck.com All Rights Res erv ed.

 Excerpted from ‘How to be a Pencilneck’ by Owen Garratt

“Nice going there buddy.”

I looked at the ramrod; there was definite leady residue on the screw end,
but no lead ball! It didn't come out!!!

This was a classic example of some shyster thinking up a scheme that

would sell like ice in August, but wouldn’t bloody work! It happened like that to
Communism too: It might’ve looked good on paper, but it just didn’t quite come
together. These screw end charlatans were luring the public into a false security -
thinking that their affairs were safe - because they’d had the foresight to purchase
one of these little attachments! It was criminal!

Panic and nausea swarmed over me. I shoved the rifle at Chris and tried a
few panicky hops.

Chris had dried his tears, and began to inspect the impotent firearm. After
a bit, he called over to my prone form and said, “Look at this.” There was a
certain bit of something in his voice that brought the color back to my flesh.

“Look at this thingy…” He pointed at the nipple. “See how it’s got a
round top, but the base is a hexagon?”

“Actually, it’s an octagon”

“Ass. What I’m saying is, maybe it’s shaped like that so a wrench would
grab onto it.”

We both stared at each other meaningfully. I hadn’t a clue what he was

getting at, but he looked meaningful, so I thought the least I could do is return his
look.

“But that only gets us so far” I said, in a brilliant ploy to cover my slow
thinking.

© Owen Garratt 2009 www.pencilneck.com All Rights Res erv ed.

 Excerpted from ‘How to be a Pencilneck’ by Owen Garratt

“True, but once it was removed, we maybe could somehow wedge a little
gunpowder in behind the ball.”

My excitement might have given away the fact that I hadn’t been
connecting the dots, but he seemed to miss it.

We got some pliers, put some tape on them to prevent scratching the finish
on the nipple, and bent our backs to it. The midday sun scorched our necks, sweat
stung our eyes, and the horseflies bit us with impunity, but we were focused! Our
liberty, if not our very lives, depended on the success of this mission. The nipple
slowly drew from its seat, and I set it aside as if it were glass. Chris, like a veteran
M.A.S.H. nurse, passed a sweaty forearm against a sweaty forehead and steadied a
small pile of gunpowder on a piece of cardboard. Taking the flat edge of a
toothpick, I lifted a tiny mound of the explosive up and gently eased it into the
hole. Breathing lightly to avoid scattering the powder, work continued like this
for long minutes until we’d guessed it to be enough. The nipple screwed back in.

“Here you go” I said, giving the rifle back to Chris.

“Right… No Thanks”

This back and forth stuff went on for a while, but I could see that Chris
wasn’t going to budge so I stepped up, thumbed a cap into place, and swallowed
heavily. My ‘friend’ took to his heels and pulled back 50 feet. I raised the barrel
and, with head turned, held the rifle as far away as my arms would reach, and
pulled he trigger.

The gun bucked awkwardly and a fizzy ‘thoomb’ sounded. I kept my eyes
shut while I took a quick inventory. There was a depressing smell of burnt hair. I
opened my eyes and saw that I'd lost all the fuzz off of my forearms. My hand
flew to my face and was much relieved to reacquaint itself with my eyebrows and

© Owen Garratt 2009 www.pencilneck.com All Rights Res erv ed.

 Excerpted from ‘How to be a Pencilneck’ by Owen Garratt

front hair. Satisfying myself that at least I was still properly arranged, I looked up
as Chris sauntered back.

In an infuriating, matter-of-fact way, he said “There was lots of flames

shooting backwards, and you could actually see the ball come out, but it worked.”
The ball was only about 15 feet in front of us. There was a big curlicue of lead
tailing out from the hole that the drill bit made.

“Well, I’ve had enough for today” I said. Chris agreed, and we cleaned
the gun and set it back on its pegs on the living room wall. We tackled the rest of
the evidence.

Uh oh.

We had a slim idea of pulling up Stanley (Dad's garden tractor...see other story)

and a trailer and shoveling the shredded cans and mess into the back, but as we
pulled up to the carnage, the full scope hit us like a smack in the mouth with a
dead fish. The cans would be ok, but the tiny shards of broken glass, egg shells,
smooshed ooze, motor oil, dish soap and the bright pink baby lotion were going to
be tough to get off of the lawn. Also, the bits and food spray went back nearly 70
feet, and we found some glass all the way into the fallow.

Our instincts were to pack up and become runaway statistics, but that was
still no guarantee of safety from Dad’s wrath. We started shoveling. We filtered
through the entrails of a hundred meals that would never be, feeling on our hands
and knees for the glass shards that were a very real hazard to pets, feet and tires.
We had some success working the egg bits, beans and other organics into the grass
with the leaf rake, and then we got the hose and tried to soak the mess out of
sight. It took hours, and we were filthy, but we did a reasonable job before the
flies got too thick. The next step was to haul the offal away and bury it. It was hot
work, but it went quickly.

© Owen Garratt 2009 www.pencilneck.com All Rights Res erv ed.

 Excerpted from ‘How to be a Pencilneck’ by Owen Garratt

“Why do I ever listen to you?” Chris said, plucking a sharp bit of

something from his palm. “We always end up spending 10 times longer working
the cover-up than we did having fun in the first place.”

“What about that time you…?”

“The time I what?”

“You know…that time” I said.

“That time nothing! Every single disaster has been your idea!!! Name
ONE thing that turned sour that was my idea!”

I leaned on my spade and started going through the events in the years
we’d known each other. I ran the list of crimes, punishments, and of the justices’
meted out by our ‘impartial’ single Mothers and Grandparents, and…I honestly
couldn’t think of one single thing that was Chris’ idea.

“Well, there’s got to be something, I just can’t think of it right now.” I

said, trying for a dismissive tone.

“No. Nothing. I always get sucked into your stupid ideas and I either get
into trouble or have to work so hard knocking together an alibi that sometimes it
would be easier just taking the punishment.”

He reflected on how that last crack fit into our present situation, and he
started digging again.

It was nearly 4:00 by the time we finished hiding the body, and got
cleaned up. We collapsed on the living room floor, and we could hear Dad driving
into the yard. Our pulses quickened, but we had cleaned up our mess, and felt that
we had taken our penance like Men, and learned a little something too. As Dad
came in, I cast a quick glance at the muzzleloader to reassure myself.

© Owen Garratt 2009 www.pencilneck.com All Rights Res erv ed.

 Excerpted from ‘How to be a Pencilneck’ by Owen Garratt

What I saw caught me like a two by four across the chest. In our panic
and haste, we’d forgotten to change the brass screw end back to the normal
concave! Dad was taking off his work boots, and Chris was filling in with chit
chat about us just hanging around, not doing much. When Dad went to the
washroom, I squeaked the news to Chris. We were sunk. It was positive proof
that not only were we firing the weapon, but there had been a problem. I was
pretty sure we could also expect some words on ‘not even bothering to put stuff
back like we’d found it.’

As Dad came out of the can, he asked Chris “So how did you like the
muzzleloader?”

How the hell did he know? He couldn’t even see it from where he was!

Chris answered “Ah…It looks great.”

“It sure aims nice. It’s so heavy that it doesn’t hardly move at all when
you aim”. He was walking in as he talked and he reached up for it.

Was this some kind of trap? Was Dad toying with us by giving a cool
delivery like some kind of TV lawyer who knows his case is airtight? That didn’t
seem to be Dad’s style. I could feel the sweat soaking through my shirt and into
the carpet.

Dad stopped. He’d seen the screw end on the ramrod. My vision swam,
and I looked at Chris, would looked like he’d accidentally eaten something he’d
found out in the front yard. “Did you have a misfire?” Dad asked.

By now, I was in full survival mode. I scanned his face for clues as to his
mood. I replayed the past few sentences looking for the all too familiar signs of
rage. My muscles tensed, my heart raced, and I had a powerful urge to pee.

© Owen Garratt 2009 www.pencilneck.com All Rights Res erv ed.

 Excerpted from ‘How to be a Pencilneck’ by Owen Garratt

But something wasn’t right…

Chris snapped. In a tight whinnying voice he confessed in one long rapid

fire sentence. He told of the phone call, of the mix-up with not putting in any
powder, of the useless drill attachment, of the removal of the nipple, of the flaking
in of the gunpowder, of the miraculous removal of the stuck ball, and of how very
very sorry he was, and he was sorry for not getting permission to shoot his gun,
and he was sorry we’d forgotten to replace the proper end on the rod, and he
promised to never EVER touch anything ever again, and if he wanted him to leave
he’d call his Mom right away.

Dad looked puzzled and said, “Whoa, whoa, its okay, these things
happen. No harm done.” He decided to swap the ends, as he had the gun in hand.
“I was working in the field just north of the house, and just after lunch I blew a
belt. When I was fixing it, I could hear the muzzleloader going off for must’ve
been an hour…What were you shooting at?”

I tried a carefree approach that missed by a mile. “Oh, we took some

cans, and, ha-ha, the empty stuff from lunch, and tee-hee, a couple of full cans,
just to, um, ‘see’. I winced a bit.

He turned to Chris with a smile. “Did Owen tell you about going rabbit
hunting in the bush with this last fall? It’d kick out so much smoke that you’d
have to run to the side to see if you’d hit it or not. If you got him right, it’d
completely blow him in two; front legs and head, and rear legs! It made it hard to
check the liver for Tularemia though.”

A light dawned. Dad was actually proud that we’d taken up arms, so to
speak. We had stepped up and taken part in a rural ritual that was a part of a boy’s
journey to manhood, just as he’d done. We’d had a bit of a problem, and had
figured out the perfect solution all by ourselves –we didn’t go looking for

© Owen Garratt 2009 www.pencilneck.com All Rights Res erv ed.

 Excerpted from ‘How to be a Pencilneck’ by Owen Garratt

someone to fix it for us. Thinking back, I’d guess that on some level, Dad was a
little concerned about how I would turn out being raised in the city by Mom. I
suppose this was encouraging. To him, the stuck ball in the rifle was no more
trouble than getting a flat tire while learning to drive.

For the record, I haven’t shot a rabbit since, and I don’t plan to, unless it’s
a survival situation. I have eaten several though, and will continue do it every
chance I get. Yes, I’m aware of these apparent contradictions in my values, and
no, I don’t care to discuss them.

So, we all beamed at each other for a while, and Dad went into the
kitchen. He opened the fridge and called:

“You know that you’ll be in a hell of a lot of trouble if that shit in the yard
starts to smell, don’t you?”

© Owen Garratt 2009 www.pencilneck.com All Rights Res erv ed.