With great enthusiasm, I put in an order back in March or so for my very own piece of American history — a M1 Garand of my very own. The genuine article, not a reproduction, exactly like our boys used it in the Pacific or maybe counted it in storage lockers after the Korean war, the only firearm from which “PING!” is a slightly less ominous sound than it usually is, et cetera. And now, after months of waiting, I can finally take a picture of my new Garand:
The observant reader will note a few things:
- This is an absolutely awful picture. I blame…
- The obligatory cat who has to intrude into every gun pic. He was in a feline sort of mood, which is to say uncooperative.
- I have thrown all caution and gun safety to the wind, and have taken a picture of a LOADED firearm!
- There are a few bits missing.
Nonetheless, progress has been made. I’m now reasonably sure that the CMP knows I exist, that they have a credit card number of mine that has not yet been lost or stolen, that my apartment manager now knows that I am the sort of nutter who has antique ammunition delivered by mail order, and that I know what Cosmoline smells like. I am now fully prepared for the arrival of the rifle, just as soon as the crates-of-surplus-rifles gods smile upon me and the other thousand or so of us whose bits of history are presently hidden somewhere in a warehouse in Alabama.
Smoke Test Shack 