One of Dad’s great pleasures in life, perhaps obsession is a more accurate term, was having and caring for a collection of firearms. He rarely got to the shooting range in his older age, but in younger days he took his sons and we all had a pretty good time, though neither I nor my brother could approach his level of enthusiasm for the shooting sport. He shot targets–could not bear to do any hunting. Once the effects of Alzheimer’s became evident in his behavior I hid the guns and later sold a number of them, but keeping a few for sentimental reasons . Mom was afraid to have them around the house. Oddly, when the disease hit him, he never showed an interest in the guns again, never asked about them. Similar in this way to him never asking about his car again after getting lost one time on the highway.
I have often wanted to pull out one of his favorite unloaded revolvers and offer it to him to touch, to hold, to feel the grip, smell the gun oil, balance the weight in his hand, open and spin the cylinder, line up the sights, cock and pull the trigger. These were his small pleasures, deeply cherished. I wonder whether now if he had the chance to hold one again, he would show any recognition or interest. Of course, I would need to find a time when Mom is away to approach him with this treasure from the past. Would he remember? If so, would he appreciate those moments or would he feel grieved by a new awareness of the loss? Or, at this stage, would it mean nothing to him? One day I may find out.
Too bad he wasn’t an avid fisherman or gardener!