It Don’t Come Easy

I knew it was gonna be one of those days. The boss— my friend, mentor and fellow gunsmith—had obviously awakened on the wrong side of the bed and was in afoul mood. Things didn’t go right all morning. Just before getting ready to go out to lunch, the buzzer on the front door went off signaling that we had a customer. I went up to the window to offer my assistance and, in a loud voice, the man announced that he wanted to see the owner. Hearing this, the boss asked if he was a solicitor; the answer was no.

Putting down the parts he was trying to assemble into a working trigger group, the boss came up to the window and immediately launched into an obscenity laced tirade. The "customer" had an arm load of cheaply made items for sale, junk that most flea markets would turn away. "Darn it, [this is the nonobscene version]

I thought you said you weren’t a solicitor." Upon hearing this, the man drew himself up to his full height (about 5’ 3") and announced, "I ain’t no solicitor, Iis a salesman." Can’t argue with logic like that. We hustled him out the door and went to lunch. Gun shops seem to draw a group of real characters and gunsmiths also get their fair share. We had one guy I called Peter Paul because every time he showed up he had two or three Mausers he wanted repaired or modified.

We always wondered why a man would want that many virtually identical rifles, though I shouldn’t cast stones as I have a fairly large accumulation of Mosin- Nagants. He always requested that we test fire each unit and provided us with some ancient 8mm Turkish surplus ammo. The task of test firing was always my job and I hated it. Even with earmuffs and poking the barrel several inches into the bullet trap, the concussion of the first shot had me flinching the next time the trigger was pulled.

Sure enough, one of the rifles had a soft spring and wouldn’t pop that rock hard primer (and yes, I flinched.) After replacing the spring with anew one, the gun went off as planned and I was shocked by what happened next. Hearing me unleash a "Holy Cow" (clean version again) at the top of my lungs, the boss came running to investigate. When asked what had happened, I explained that this particular test shot included a bright, white fireball that climbed up my arm shortly after the gun went off.

Thinking I was crazy, he fired a magazine of five rounds and nothing happened (naturally.) Later that afternoon Peter Paul arrived to pick up his rifles. We told him the story of my fireball incident. He looked at me like I was not only crazy, but a wimp as well. "Let ME try it," he said, grabbing one of his Mausers and a fist full of ammo. The first shot was normal but the second included the return of the fireball. Now I had some witnesses.

We discussed the matter briefly, deciding it must have been some slow powder, still burning as it exited the barrel and then the ball of flaming gas bounced off the end of the bullet trap. It then proceeded to travel up the arm of the disbelieving shooter and vanish. Peter Paul quietly paid his bill and left. We didn’t see him again for several weeks. I have my own shop, but still occasionally work for my friend because of his knowledge and good company.

It doesn’t hurt that he also has a mill, lathe and almost every special tool on the planet. A woman I had worked with called about a project that didn’t require any of my friend’s special tools, just lots of time and creative thinking. She wanted to have me restore her husband’s old Winchester .22 so she could surprise him on his birthday. In good shape, this rifle wasn’t worth a hundred bucks, in its current condition it wasn’t worth twenty.

The story was that the woman’s husband and his first wife had gotten into an "argument" and she tried to club him with his trusty Winchester; I’d say a pretty good reason for the divorce. She missed him, but did connect with the refrigerator, shattering the stock into several pieces. The sorry old gun was stuck in the closet for a few years, allowing several pieces of wood to disappear and the metal to rust. As I examined the rifle, one quick look revealed that the little .22 should never be fired again.

The bore was a solid mass of rust which would surely trap any bullet that someone was foolish enough to fire. I told her I felt certain I could locate a good used stock for a friendly price, but she wanted none of that. She decreed that only original parts were to be used for the "restoration." I explained that, good as I may be, the stock was too badly damaged for me to repair, especially the side that had collided with the fridge.

A few days later, she pitched the idea of mounting the rifle in a shadow box, "good" side facing out. It seemed doable, so I began what ranks as the dumbest project I have ever taken on. I disassembled what was left and, first things first, ground the tip off the firing pin and noted on the work order that the gun was unsafe to fire. The bolt assembly was in surprisingly good shape, so I cleaned it up, oiled the parts, and put it back together. Next was the barreled receiver which was soaked

in rust remover, then bead blasted. Some aggressive blasting disguised the worst of the pitting, so it was time for anew finish. I started by grabbing a bottle of Oxpho-Blue cold blue off the shelf. Did I mention that the nice lady wanted all this done as cheaply as possible? The bluing compound was applied with some 000 steel wool (I know that sounds weird, but it works) and soon the metal was looking as good as it ever would. I was dreading the next step, resurrecting the stock.

There were several chunks missing and the biggest break was so jagged that there was no way it would all fit back together. The only solution was to saw off the jagged bits and butt the two freshly sawn pieces together. Surprisingly, it actually didn’t look half bad. Then I decided to adapt an old benchrest trick and glued the barreled action into the stock. Piece by piece, I reassembled that metal and wood jigsaw puzzle with the aid of Acraglas epoxy and a moderate amount of stupid luck.

Once the glue had dried, the "remodeled" stock was steamed to remove the worst of the numerous dents and refinished with a quick coat of varnish. The whole thing turned out much better than expected, mainly because most of the rifle was hidden by the shadow box itself. When all was said and done, I collected $40.00, netting me about 75 cents an hour. Dumb. Fall for gunsmiths is, to quote a famous author, the best of times and the worst of times.

We stay very busy and actually make a few bucks, but everybody wants the job done yesterday. Never mind that there are several months in between the end of the old hunting season and the beginning of the new one. No one seems to plan ahead. Shorten a stock for my son, fit anew recoil pad, mount a different scope. The requests for service seem endless. Then there is the guy with his trusty muzzle loader which needs a "quick check-up" in order to be ready for the new season.

At first glance it doesn’t look too bad, just dusty from hanging on the wall above his fireplace. While I was writing up the service ticket, the customer filled me in on his trophy buck (aren’t they all trophies?) taken last year. After he left, I set to work—remember, it had to be done yesterday. A flashlight showed the bore to be kind of rough and a phone call to our intrepid hunter revealed that he had not cleaned it after his successful hunt.

If possible, I like to remove the breech plug from the barrel to allow the best view of the bore. No such luck, the plug was rusted solid. I tried a variety of concoctions (most with an odor which would gag the proverbial maggot) before failure forced me to call my gunsmith buddy. He is a world class storyteller and related some information he had gotten from a machinist mate who had served on a nuclear sub.

It seems that, due to the air supply on board a submarine being constantly recirculated, the US Navy doesn’t allow petrochemical solvents such as WD-40. The substance they do allow is oil of wintergreen. I thought this sounded preposterous but found a tiny bottle of the real thing at the grocery store and gave it a try. Damn, it really works and even makes the shop smell great. Sure enough, the neglected barrel was junk and time for anew muzzleloader. The expensive lessons are always the best way to learn.

This situation triggered an amateur test of my ample supply of penetrating oils. I dug through a pile of old motorcycle stuff (I make it a practice not to have any inexpensive hobbies) and pulled out a brake rotor and carrier assembly that had a heavy coat of rust on the bolts that held them together. All the bolts received a dousing of different types of "miracle" stuff (all of this done outside as I’m not THAT much of a glutton for punishment) and gave it some time to work.

The material that seemed to do best for me was good old Marvel Mystery Oil (marvelmysteryoil.com). I took a whiff and it sure smelled like oil of wintergreen to me. Now when muzzleloaders are brought in, they have a couple of ounces of "Marvin’s Mystery" (what I now call it) poured down the barrel and set in the corner to give it time to work. And best of all, I don’t have to invest in some frilly air freshener to keep my shop smelling fantastic.

I earlier wrote about "restoring" a "family heirloom" and the fun to be had with such a project. Most people have no idea of the time and effort (and money) required to make an old, abused firearm look new again. It is generally easier and cheaper to build one from scratch than to attempt a real restoration. I was working with my gunsmith friend when a group wandered in with some sorry looking guns and brought up the "R" word.

My buddy did everything in his power to discourage them, citing the considerable amount of hours and dollars needed to accomplish what they wanted. It was against his better judgment but he accepted a substantial down payment and took on the job. Over the next few months, we would work on these guns as time would permit. This was a daunting task and it was obvious that time had truly taken its toll on the wood and metal. The stocks were dented, one also had a large crack, and the steel parts were pitted and rusty.

After a tremendous amount of careful, painstaking labor, the project was done and the customers were called with the final payment needed. When they arrived, we showed them the fruits of our labor. We didn’t know it but we were in for a shock. Tears of joy came to their eyes as they remembered the good old days when their long dead relative used these guns to put food on the table. They thanked us profusely and left with the rifle and shotguns in their hands and gigantic smiles on their faces.

Yup, being a gunsmith can be a struggle but times like this make it all worthwhile. AG