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Elvis died thirty years ago today. I was 14. I heard it on the radio while sitting in my Dad's truck at Camp Perry, Ohio where he was competing in the nationals there. He was checking scores or buying beer or giving his buddies a hard time or something, and when he got back to the truck I told him about Elvis, not sure if it was a big deal or not.

It was.

He went on to qualify for the Distinguished Rifleman badge that week, shooting an M-1 and an M-14 (I don't really know the difference, though I think I recall the M-1 had more wood on it.). Both were so heavy to my spindly arms at the time I helped by carrying his spotting scope and that little fold out green stool with pockets filled with cleaning materials and other things whose smell to this day remind me sharply of him.

I have a picture of him from that week, a bit gaunt from the cancer that got him a ticket to meet the King less than two years later. He could barely move in that coat, I know that's the point. He shot that gun a long, long way and of the hundreds of guns he owned during my lifetime, I never saw one in the house with a scope mounted on it.

He was a good shot, and a better Dad. Distinguished indeed.

 

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Eddie,
What a neat story. Those are some wonderful memories.

Thanks for sharing

Molon Labe

Kim
 

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Nice story Eddie, and well written.
 

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A good shot and a great father. What better legacy could a man ask for?
 
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