Newton's Third Law or...What the Hell was I thinking?

Newton’s Third Law of Motion: For every action there is an equal and opposite re-action.

This is perhaps the most important of Newton’s Laws as they pertain to our daily lives. Most everyone has seen the effects of this law by observing the recoil of a firearm when a projectile is fired. As the projectile moves in one direction the firearm itself recoils in the opposite direction. Generally, due to the difference in weight between the gun itself and the bullet, this recoil is quite manageable. Note I said “generally.

One of my Dad’s prized possessions was an old 12 gauge double barrel shotgun that had been given to him by my mother’s father. This old gun rested on a set of elk antlers that hung on our dining room wall. It wasn’t really a dining room; it was actually one corner of the room that served as kitchen, living room, my parent’s bedroom and the dining room. It also saw duty as the bathroom on Sunday evenings when Mom dragged out the washtub for our weekly baths.

That shotgun watched down over our family for as long as I can remember, brought down only for the occasional cleaning and to be admired by visitors who Dad deemed worthy. I was fascinated by the gun and, even though it was longer than I was tall, would beg Dad to let me hold it anytime he took it from it’s resting place. It wasn’t beautiful by any means, it had been used hard and the stock was scarred, the bluing faded and the exposed hammers worn smooth.

Even at the age of 10 I was not unfamiliar with firearms. I received my first .22 rifle for my 7th birthday and, except for the year that it was taken from me for shooting my brother in the forehead with a friend’s BB gun, I had that rifle until I was well into my forties. So, like motorcycles, guns have always held an attraction for me.

In my 10th winter my family was raising rabbits in an attempt to stay alive. For those of you who think rabbits are cute and cuddly little buggers, they may be if you keep them as pets. Ours were livestock. They were mean, nasty little bastards that would kick, scratch and bite if given the opportunity. I didn’t like them. But, the local coyotes loved them.

The snows lay deep that winter in the mountains of Idaho and eventually the rabbit cages that were built on stilts no longer kept the rabbits safe from the coyotes. The bloody smears left from a night’s feast of marauding coyotes brought tears to my mother’s eyes and the fear that her children would spend another hungry winter.

Dad was working long hours, skidding logs and plowing snow with a bulldozer for a guy who apparently couldn’t afford to pay him very often. He left for work long before daylight and staggered home 12 or 14 hours later, chilled to the bone and worn to a nubbin. My brother, Mike, and I decided that we would protect the rabbits.

We took turns sneaking from the cabin late at night when our parents lay snoring in their corner. Mike had a little .22/.410 over and under that he carried on his nights and I had my .22. Night after night we would slide silently from the cabin and take a position in the outhouse, peering through a hole in the door, bundled against the cold, waiting for the coyotes to appear. More often than not we would awaken in the morning to find blood smeared on the snow from another kill, but we had seen nothing.

Our parents were not as unaware as it may seem. After Mike sneaked from the house one night I heard my mother whisper to Dad and he, in his bourbon and cigarette scarred voice, rasp back, “ I know, they will be ok, they are doing what they can to help although I doubt they will do much good with those popguns even if they see a coyote.”

The next night it was my turn. The full moon gleamed on the snow, lighting the cabin through the single window, as I crept from my bed. I took my time, holding my breath as I listened to the sounds of my family sleeping. My “little popgun” got the night off as I climbed onto a chair and carefully took the precious shotgun from it’s lofty perch. As all firearms in our house, it was always loaded. Out the door I slid into the cold January night. I knew that I was in trouble when I looked back and saw the flare of my dad’s lighter. He knew I had taken the 12 gauge.

I huddled in the freezing icebox of the outhouse, waiting for him to come outside. He didn’t. Eventually, I drifted off, dreaming of warm summer days and fishing the river below the cabin. I was jerked awake by the squeal of rabbits. I peered through the hole in the door. In the bright moonlight I could see rabbits spinning in their cages, drumming a warning with their hindlegs. All of the cages were in a panic.

Desperately I scanned the snow, looking for the shadow of the beast. There! I saw a shadow slink from behind a jackpine. A coyote! He was 30 feet from the cages, a hundred feet from where I was hyperventilating. I eased the muzzle of the shotgun out the hole. The coyote slipped around another tree and stopped, a cold blooded killer in the spotlight of the moon. He twitched and raised his nose in the frigid air as the hammers clicked back on the shotgun. I froze. He looked right at me.

I squeezed both triggers. The world exploded in light and sound. Fire flashed from the muzzle. A giant fist slammed my shoulder as I was tossed against the back wall of the outhouse. The wall trembled, shuddered and collapsed outward. I opened my eyes, blinded by the muzzle blast, to see a shadow fall from the sky. I rolled to my right, tangled with the shotgun and felt cold snow against my face. Something hit me in the butt.

With my ears still ringing from the double blast I heard my Dad, roaring, “JESUS CHRIST!” My mother screamed. I bawled.

I felt myself being lifted and pulled by the collar of my coat. I opened my eyes to see my Dad, naked as a jaybird, dragging me from beneath the roof of the collapsed outhouse. My mother was wrapped in a robe, hand to her mouth, eyes wide, in concern or disbelief.
I dangled from the end of his arm. At least I was alive. For now. Dad shook me, looked me over, and pronounced, “No blood, you’ll live,” and set me on my feet. He bent down, shoved aside the fallen roof and retrieved the shotgun. Then, he handed it to me and said, quietly, “This is going to need a good cleaning before you go to bed”.

Back in the cabin I sat at the table, cleaning the shotgun. Dad, wearing his wool longjohns , sat across from me, silently smoking a Pall Mall. The rest of the family went back to bed. He finally butted out the smoke and said, “Put some liniment on that shoulder when you finish with the shotgun. You stay home from school today and get that outhouse back together. Your mother doesn’t like squatting in the snow. Just one of those woman things, I guess.”