Typecaster
11-28-2011, 04:30 PM
My dad passed away peacefully in his sleep last night, in his own home in Prescott. It seemed he was really holding on for his 100th birthday in April, and had a pretty steady decline since then. So this certainly wasn’t unexpected, and I’m joyful that he’s in a better place and back together with my mom.
I was able to tell him on Thanksgiving that my older son and his wife are expecting their first child, and his caretaker’s son said he was smiling at the news. The circle of life goes on.
He taught me a lot—to put family first, about guns and shooting, how to build a house, how to heat a tool in the forge and draw out a new point, and on and on. How to be a man.
Guns were always important to him, and I think he was probably happiest when he had his own shop, Scotty’s Gun Shop, in Surrey, N.D. from 1945-56. (His first name was Stewart, but everyone in Surrey called him Scotty, even though his parents were Irish, not Scots.)
It wasn’t easy watching him age. He stopped shooting anything other than black powder about 10 years ago, and then only his flinchlocks, then stopped shooting completely. He’d go to the range and spot for me, and was happy to make the loop of gun shops near Prescott when I’d visit about every other month, but even that much interest stopped just before he turned 100.
So, Dad, I’m going to miss you. After almost 10 years of calling you on the phone every morning to say “Hi,” it’s going to be strange to not have that ritual. But I’ll think about you every time I walk into the gun room and see one of the rifles you built or stocked, and smile to myself every time I go to the range.
Richard
I was able to tell him on Thanksgiving that my older son and his wife are expecting their first child, and his caretaker’s son said he was smiling at the news. The circle of life goes on.
He taught me a lot—to put family first, about guns and shooting, how to build a house, how to heat a tool in the forge and draw out a new point, and on and on. How to be a man.
Guns were always important to him, and I think he was probably happiest when he had his own shop, Scotty’s Gun Shop, in Surrey, N.D. from 1945-56. (His first name was Stewart, but everyone in Surrey called him Scotty, even though his parents were Irish, not Scots.)
It wasn’t easy watching him age. He stopped shooting anything other than black powder about 10 years ago, and then only his flinchlocks, then stopped shooting completely. He’d go to the range and spot for me, and was happy to make the loop of gun shops near Prescott when I’d visit about every other month, but even that much interest stopped just before he turned 100.
So, Dad, I’m going to miss you. After almost 10 years of calling you on the phone every morning to say “Hi,” it’s going to be strange to not have that ritual. But I’ll think about you every time I walk into the gun room and see one of the rifles you built or stocked, and smile to myself every time I go to the range.
Richard