Father Knows Best, Not!

By Jamie Spaulding

Tuesday, August 17, 2010

     Just last week I heard a news story about a teen dying in an accident involving a muzzle loader. Yesterday I decided it was time to remind my boys of the difference between modern smokeless powder and black powder. As a careful and conscientious re loader, it has always been my practice to keep all my propellants in their original container. I, however, am fortunate to be the "gun guy" to go to for many of my friends, family, and former students. There are many negative aspects to holding this distinction. One of the most common is being handed a box full of tiny springs, pins, levers, hammer, trigger, and some type of frame. This is usually accompanied by the request to "put it back like it was". One of the positive aspects of being the "go to guy" on firearms is that if someone has some gun related junk they want to unload they call me. Due to this, I had in my possession a half pound of extruded powder with a home made label. The label made me believe the previous owner (unknown to me) knew what he was doing. Hand written on the label was "IMR 4895, Save for National Matches", plus a lot number. This led me to believe that it was, probably, exactly what it said it was. There was no way I was going to re-load with it though, so I decided to use it for a demonstration.
      I am loathe to put on an exhibition without an audience. I went into the house and called to my boys. Ethan, my eldest son, had a friend over and he was encouraged to watch, as well as Nathan, my fifteen year old. My eight year old daughter, Savannah, who also had a friend over, gathered with the boys on the patio. I explained that smokeless power and black powder were completely different in their burning rates and the volume of hot gases produced by each. At this point I proceeded to pour a fuse trail of the IMR 4895, about four feet long, away from the edge of the patio, dumping the remainder of the half pound in a pile at the end of the fuse trail. I stepped back to the patio, lit a cigarette and bent over touching the cigarette to the powder trail. The propellant sparked to life erupting in a flame over a foot high in a nice slow run to the pile. The pile produced a flame over four feet high and releasing a great amount of heat for about four seconds. The display was awesome to say the least. When it was over I was surprised to find Savannah's friend in the neighbor's yard, where she had run to when the pile ignited.
      Now for the last half of my demonstration and my reason for writing (I owe it to posterity to record this as accurately as possible). I picked up the can of FFFg black powder and proceeded to make another fuse trail. Taking care to move far enough away from the first so as not to pour over a hot ember and blow myself to kingdom come, I poured a nice thick fuse trail about five feet long finishing up in a not too large pile. I then advised my audience to watch carefully because this was going to be fast. I bent over to find the beginning of the fuse trail in the grass and touched the cigarette to it. Except it wasn't the beginning of the trail. It was about a foot into the line of powder. Which meant I was bent over as much powder in that foot of fuse trail as I had poured in the pile. In a flash (literally) I realized my mistake.
     It's funny how quickly the mind can formulate a thought. In the instant of the resulting flash, my mind clearly sent out the call it felt most important, "your head's on fire". But in the time it took for my free hand to get the message and react by slapping myself about the head and face, it was over. Surrounded by the lingering plume of sulfurous smoke, I detected another smell, unmistakable after your first whiff of it, the odoriferous smell of burnt hair was thick in the air.
     Through the haze I glanced at my blackened, hairless, hand. Still held between my thumb and trigger finger was a charred, smoking remnant of a cigarette filter. Just a nanosecond before, it had been a nearly full length Pall Mall 100 surreptitiously purloined from my wife's pack for my "demonstration". I was still hopeful though. Seeing the hair singed off of my igniting hand and halfway up my forearm, I thought, "aha! that's where the smell of burnt hair is coming from". About then I was roused from my bout of wishful thinking by my fifteen year old. He said, "Oh my gosh, Dad!". I reached up and felt for my bangs and saw ashes falling. I realized that I must look like Wyle E. Coyote after a bungled blasting powder booby-trap.
      My last concern was for my beard. Three weeks ago I began growing a beard in preparation for deer season. It begins with archery the last weekend in September. I had planned on having a luxurious beard by opening weekend. In the twinkling of an eye I went from a full inch long full beard to a quasi- half, fu-manchu. I suppose I'm fortunate that I just lost some hair. My problem now is deciding whether to paint on a right eye brow, shave off the left one, for the sake of symmetry, or just leave them be.
Thanks for reading,
Jamie