Oh, crap (revisited)......

[MikieM]

Back in 1983, I was heading to the range for our monthly hose fest. The course of fire has long since escaped my memory, but that's not what this story is about, anyway. What it is about is a friend of mine from Springdale, Arkansas, named Snuffy Smith, and what happened to Snuffy on that cool Spring morning in Southwest Missouri.

I pulled through the gate of our range and parked near where we would be holding the match. I was the Match Director and along with my shooting stuff I had targets, trophies, pasters, and all the necessary paperwork for the participants. Although the skies were cloudy, no rain was expected, and I anticipated a fairly large turnout. But as I began walking toward a group of guys who were setting out target stands my attention was drawn to something very much out of the ordinary. 

Coming towards me was Snuffy Smith, a shooter from Arkansas, and a good friend. As he got nearer I could tell that something was wrong. His face was as white as a sheet. I looked at him and said, "What's wrong Snuffy, you're as pale as a ghost."

He said, "I just shit my pants!" 

I said, "You what?"

"Right over there." He said, pointing toward one of the berms. "I shit my pants, right over there!" 

"Well, how'd it happen, Snuff?" I asked.

He replied in a voice that was easily an octave higher than normal. 

"I had to piss real bad so I went behind that berm over there to take a leak. I started peeing on an old rusty wire that was lying on the ground next to a fence post when all of a sudden I saw this big flash of light and that's when it happened. I gotta go clean myself up."

Snuffy took off for the outhouse and I went over to the berm.

Sure enough, there was the fence post laying over with a bare wire running from it to the ground, just like he'd said. I then noticed something, however, that Snuffy obviously hadn't. That rusty wire he had peed on was attached to the post by an insulator. I didn't have to be Sherlock Holmes to figure out that this was an electrified fence and that it was still charged. Most likely one of our neighbor's cows had knocked it down, and fairly recently.

As it turns out Snuffy was able to compete that day, albeit a little slower than usual, and we had a good match. Everyone had fun, except probably for him, and I was able to get a hold of our neighbor and tell him about the fence.

Regrettably, he left the range a couple of years ago, but the memory of this story lives on. RIP, my friend.

Snuffy, by-the-way, made a living making bridges for banjos. I've heard it said that he made the best banjo bridges in the world.

 

,

 

 

Edited February 3, 2018 by MikieM

[Hi-Power Jack]

That story has all the elements of a Greek tragedy  ....   cool spring morning, face white as a sheet, 

electrified fence and banjo bridges.   The four basic elements of a Great Tragic Story.    

 

You've made my eyes tear ....    

[MikieM]

Thanks, Jack. It's a true story.

We have a new pistol range at the opposite end of where this story took place. Six big bays, lots of room. A pavillion at each bay with tables. It's a beautiful place.

But on occasion I'll head down the other way and set up a target in front of the berm where Snuffy filled his drawers. It's quieter there and I'm allowed to recall the times when we all gathered together to have it out with our single-stack race guns. 

With age comes sentimentality, but I don't think that's necessarily a bad thing. Do you?

 

[Steve RA]

No, can't say as I do !!!