Joe was an outdoorsman, and always had been. Nothing made him happier than 
spending a weekend fishing or hunting with his brother or sons. Waterfowl and upland game birds were a particular passion. His wife, Frankie, had gotten used to being a “hunting widow.” It was ok with her. Her only complaint was the quantitiy of sage seeds and dust that inevitably came home from Eastern Oregon. At least bird season was shorter than football, and didn’t come into the living room, much.
A year earlier, while shopping at K-Mart, Joe fell in love. It was a Mossberg 12-gauge auto-loader . . . and it was on sale. It was the perfect shotgun for his annual bird hunt. He had wanted one like it for a long time, and they had a little extra cash. With a bit of persuasion, Frankie agreed that it was a great deal, and would never be any cheaper. “It can be my birthday and Christmas present,” Joe offered.
Frankie just smiled. Joe deserved a new one; she knew he planned to pass his old double barrel to their oldest son for his birthday…and it really was a good buy.
He purchased the shotgun, and the men went on their trip. Upon his return, he declared that it was the best firearm he’d ever used. The brace of chukkars and sage-hens he brought home proved it.
Fall gave way to winter, and January brought some of the worst storms in decades. Frigid arctic winds howled for days. Freezing rain created a world brittle as glass, snapping tree limbs and power lines alike. Western Oregon, unaccustomed to sub-zero temperatures, was paralyzed.
On Joe and Frankie’s little farm, the fields were reduced to little more
than straw stubble. The wind had scoured and burned the grass, and the ice had finished it off. The livestock had been confined to the barn, where they could be cared for…and fed. Joe studied the dwindling stack of bales in the corner. It had been nearly three weeks. They had not been prepared for this. Even if the weather changed tomorrow, there was nothing left of the pasture. He would have to buy more hay, and this was definitely not in the family budget. He shook his head, knowing what he had to do.
“I’m going to sell the Mossberg,” he told Frankie that evening. “I barely fired it, only put about a dozen rounds through it. It’s just like a new gun.”
“Is that really necessary?” She asked, “I mean, there must be something else we can do.”
“It’s not like we can charge a ton of hay to a credit card,” Joe responded, always practical. “It’s okay, guns are a commodity. Buy in good times, sell in bad.”
Removing the shotgun from its case, he proceeded to wipe it down carefully, although it was already spotless. Returned to its manufacturer’s box, the 12 gauge really did look like new. A slip of paper caught his eye. It was the original receipt.
“Do you think I could just return it?” Joe mused. “I wonder what K-Mart’s policy is on stuff like that.”
An hour later, he emerged from the store with a cash refund in his pocket, enough to buy hay for the rest of the winter. Apparently, the customer is always right at the big red K.
Months went by and October bird season approached again. Nothing was said this year about a new shotgun. One day, Frankie was back at K-Mart, looking for gym bags for the boys. While shopping in sporting goods, she found herself in front of the gun counter, staring at a big red sign. CLEARANCE. She scanned the display case for a 12-gauge auto-loader. There it was, toward the end. Nearly half off, and significantly less than Joe had paid the previous year.
Immediately, she determined to buy it for her husband. It was still almost $200. Joe would notice if she spent that much money without accounting for it. She rang the bell for service.
“Can I put this on lay-away?” she asked, indicating the Mossberg behind the glass.
Christmas morning, Frankie was fairly twitching. They opened presents as they always did, youngest to oldest, with Joe being last. After the last bow was plucked off, and the last bit of colored paper hit the floor, Frankie reached behind the couch and pulled out another wrapped package. “I think Santa forgot to put this under the tree,” she smiled, handing it to Joe.
A look of incredulous joy crossed the man’s face as he tore the red and gold striped paper off the box. “Wow,” he grinned as he lifted the shotgun from its box and studied it, inside and out. “Oh, honey, I can’t believe it. How did you manage this?”
“Lay-away!” she laughed. “Is it the right one? I wasn’t sure of the model.”
Joe’s grin widened, and he handed her a tiny, round ball. “Not only is it the right one,” he told her, “I think it’s the same one.”
Frankie looked at the object in her hand. It was a sage seed, the kind found in the high deserts of eastern and central Oregon.
spending a weekend fishing or hunting with his brother or sons. Waterfowl and upland game birds were a particular passion. His wife, Frankie, had gotten used to being a “hunting widow.” It was ok with her. Her only complaint was the quantitiy of sage seeds and dust that inevitably came home from Eastern Oregon. At least bird season was shorter than football, and didn’t come into the living room, much.A year earlier, while shopping at K-Mart, Joe fell in love. It was a Mossberg 12-gauge auto-loader . . . and it was on sale. It was the perfect shotgun for his annual bird hunt. He had wanted one like it for a long time, and they had a little extra cash. With a bit of persuasion, Frankie agreed that it was a great deal, and would never be any cheaper. “It can be my birthday and Christmas present,” Joe offered.
Frankie just smiled. Joe deserved a new one; she knew he planned to pass his old double barrel to their oldest son for his birthday…and it really was a good buy.
He purchased the shotgun, and the men went on their trip. Upon his return, he declared that it was the best firearm he’d ever used. The brace of chukkars and sage-hens he brought home proved it.
Fall gave way to winter, and January brought some of the worst storms in decades. Frigid arctic winds howled for days. Freezing rain created a world brittle as glass, snapping tree limbs and power lines alike. Western Oregon, unaccustomed to sub-zero temperatures, was paralyzed.
On Joe and Frankie’s little farm, the fields were reduced to little more
than straw stubble. The wind had scoured and burned the grass, and the ice had finished it off. The livestock had been confined to the barn, where they could be cared for…and fed. Joe studied the dwindling stack of bales in the corner. It had been nearly three weeks. They had not been prepared for this. Even if the weather changed tomorrow, there was nothing left of the pasture. He would have to buy more hay, and this was definitely not in the family budget. He shook his head, knowing what he had to do.“I’m going to sell the Mossberg,” he told Frankie that evening. “I barely fired it, only put about a dozen rounds through it. It’s just like a new gun.”
“Is that really necessary?” She asked, “I mean, there must be something else we can do.”
“It’s not like we can charge a ton of hay to a credit card,” Joe responded, always practical. “It’s okay, guns are a commodity. Buy in good times, sell in bad.”
Removing the shotgun from its case, he proceeded to wipe it down carefully, although it was already spotless. Returned to its manufacturer’s box, the 12 gauge really did look like new. A slip of paper caught his eye. It was the original receipt.
“Do you think I could just return it?” Joe mused. “I wonder what K-Mart’s policy is on stuff like that.”
An hour later, he emerged from the store with a cash refund in his pocket, enough to buy hay for the rest of the winter. Apparently, the customer is always right at the big red K.
Months went by and October bird season approached again. Nothing was said this year about a new shotgun. One day, Frankie was back at K-Mart, looking for gym bags for the boys. While shopping in sporting goods, she found herself in front of the gun counter, staring at a big red sign. CLEARANCE. She scanned the display case for a 12-gauge auto-loader. There it was, toward the end. Nearly half off, and significantly less than Joe had paid the previous year.
Immediately, she determined to buy it for her husband. It was still almost $200. Joe would notice if she spent that much money without accounting for it. She rang the bell for service.
“Can I put this on lay-away?” she asked, indicating the Mossberg behind the glass.
Christmas morning, Frankie was fairly twitching. They opened presents as they always did, youngest to oldest, with Joe being last. After the last bow was plucked off, and the last bit of colored paper hit the floor, Frankie reached behind the couch and pulled out another wrapped package. “I think Santa forgot to put this under the tree,” she smiled, handing it to Joe.
A look of incredulous joy crossed the man’s face as he tore the red and gold striped paper off the box. “Wow,” he grinned as he lifted the shotgun from its box and studied it, inside and out. “Oh, honey, I can’t believe it. How did you manage this?”
“Lay-away!” she laughed. “Is it the right one? I wasn’t sure of the model.”
Joe’s grin widened, and he handed her a tiny, round ball. “Not only is it the right one,” he told her, “I think it’s the same one.”
Frankie looked at the object in her hand. It was a sage seed, the kind found in the high deserts of eastern and central Oregon.
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