Well I personally like the guns I have now, even the 458 Win.

I don't miss my first .22 at all, one of my uncles gave it to me for my 8th birthday (my moms baby brother). A Savage single shot with a Mannlicher stock, what a great little gun and I've never seen another one to replace it with.

20 years later his oldest son turned 8 and I gave it to him for his birthday present (after getting the ok from his mom). Man the look on his face when he opened it was well worth giving it away. His son is now shooting it.

My dad would never let me have a BB gun. His opinion was that it was to dangerous as you never knew if it was loaded or not. So, my first gun was a Remington model 572 pump in .22 caliber. That was some 40 years ago and it still shoots as straight as it ever did. I will always have it.

John

Well, this brings back the memories.... I started out with a Daisy, i want to say a 922. It was a .22 airgun with a pump handle in the forearm. I then got a .22lr (I just recently got a Savage 24 for reliving the simple days and to pass on to Jr.) but what really got me was my first centerfire, yes it was a .303 enfield jungle carbine: I thought i really had a thumper. I have not been to Africa, but i think about it sometimes. Now I have a Ruger #3 in 45-70 and tinker with a NEF handirifle with an Ultra Slug Hunter barrel (900 grain slugs at 1300 fps with black, still taking time to develop nitro) but thinking of a .416 barrel for my encore.

My favorite rifle is the Rem 121 Fieldmaster that my Dad bought for $12.00 before he went off to WWII.

quote:

Originally posted by 30ott6:
My dad would never let me have a BB gun. His opinion was that it was to dangerous

John

Mine had the same attitude. My first .22 was a loser of a gun, but it was dirt cheap and all my dad could afford. In my early teens I trapped enough fur to afford a Mossberg 321M (which I still have) and a peep sight. Come summers in AK, I would go out in the woods with the .22 and basic kit for miles and days, occasionally, a couple of weeks. Long, long later, after coming back from the Land of All Bad Things, my dad told me a story.

It seems that my mom had gotten on his case about me taking off for so long to nobody knew where. He asked her would she prefer that I hang around town with the rampant drugs and alcohol, or be off in the bush where I was safe. End of discussion, end of story.