Well, first of all, my name is Lance Gill. I live in North Dakota, but originally hail from South Dakota. My wife and I moved to the frozen tundra in 1977 as I accepted a teaching position in a small town southwest of the state capitol. I’ll explain more about the decision to move a little later. So, what’s up with Laser. After three years of trying to make a go of it as an educator, I finally realized I would not be able to pursue my hobbies on $450 per month. I answered an advertisement for a laborer position at a local power company, and wouldn’t you know it, they thought I was the right man for the job. I’m getting to the Laser part now. Shortly after I started my employment, I was assigned to operate a piece of equipment called a hydro laser. It is just what it sounds like. For the next few months I cleaned pipelines in various locations around the plant while operating the diesel powered hydro laser. Then came that fateful day. A plugged pipeline in the plant. The call went out for Laser Man, me. The name stuck, and since 1980 I still answer to it. I retired from the plant in 2014, and most of the people working there have no idea who Lance Gill is, but they have heard of, you guessed it, Laser Man.
Ok, Letters from Laser. What’s the gist of this article. I received my Red Rider when my 9th birthday rolled around. The 12th birthday was even more special as my dad gifted me an Ithaca Model 49. I was now into the big time. Purchased a Springfield 20 gauge when I was fourteen. My favorite pastime throughout all these years, if you haven’t already figured it out, was hunting. I celebrated my seventy second birthday in September. So, you do the math. I grew up hunting pheasants, rabbits, gophers, ducks, geese, deer, and anything else that wandered around in front of the gun barrels mentioned earlier. In that time, I have experienced or witnessed a great many oddities while pursuing critters. I’d be willing to bet anyone who’s put in sixty years of hunting the country, could say the same thing.
So, if you will indulge me, think of Letters from Laser as me writing to you personally. I will attempt to entertain you with my adventures stored in my memory banks located in the folds between my ears. There is no chronological order to any of this. The memories will just pop out as they surface from time to time. Now I’m quite certain you too have personal adventures that could rival many of mine. If that’s the case, feel free to share them with me. Remember, I’m writing these letters to you. Before I go any further, let me mention I grew up in a time when there weren’t many rules regarding ethical hunting. That is not my fault. I simply became a product of my environment, and as they say “When in Rome, do as the Romans do.”
Ok, I’m about eight years old, sitting in the living room watching Howdy Doody. I heard what I thought was a firecracker exploding in our back yard. Then another firecracker. I gotta check this out. The 4th of July had passed a couple months earlier. As I cleared the back door, I could see my dad sitting on an old plow back by our garbage incinerator. Back then everybody burned their garbage. As I strolled back to investigate the fireworks, a lone blackbird flew overhead. Dad raised his Ruger Standard 22 semiauto pistol and fired a single shot. Much to my surprise, the bird fell out of the sky. Now I knew my dad was proficient with firearms, but to shoot a blackbird with a single round as it flew by, was simply amazing. Up to that point, Matt Dillon was the only person I’d ever seen make that shot. “Nice shot!” I shouted. “Not that hard to shoot blackbirds with birdshot.” he said. “What’s birdshot?” I asked. He showed me a live round and casually inserted it into the chamber of the gun, slid the bolt ahead, and was ready for the next flyover. He instructed me to remain still, which I did. The birds were headed to the incinerator for a hot lunch, I guess.
As the time passed, several other birds fell victim to my dad’s marksmanship. This is where things get a little strange. Another bird circled overhead. Dad raised the pistol and fired , but instead of falling out of the sky, the bird slowly spiraled downward. Since my dad was the tallest thing in the backyard, the blackbird used his baseball cap as a landing pad. Dad calmly reached up and snatched the bird off the top of his head. I sat there silently, mouth agape as Dad placed the stunned bird on the ground.
Dad said “Why don’t you put him out of his misery?” With that, he slid another shell into the Ruger, showed me how to hold the gun and pull the trigger. Remember, I’m eight years old, and not very big. I held the gun with my right hand and couldn’t quite reach the trigger. FYI, prior to that day I had already worn out several cap guns as well as squirt guns while playing cops and robbers. The problem was the Ruger was much larger and heavier than the Fanner Fifty I used to gun down hundreds of bad guys. Back to the bird. Holding the gun in my right hand, I used my left index finger to pull the trigger. I missed. “You have to hold it steady.” Dad said. Another round went into the pistol. Again, right hand on the grip, left index finger on the trigger. Hold steady. Bang. I missed again. The bird is being very cooperative as it hasn’t moved. Another shell into the gun, steady hold, and bang. Missed again. Apparently, I had struck out. Dad finished the job, and went back to reducing the local population of flying varmints.
You might think I would be a bit dejected after the experience. Not at all, as I had just received my first firearms lesson. After three hot rounds with a Big Boy gun, I was all in. Actually, I wanted another opportunity to shoot the pistol, but didn’t want to force the issue with my dad. He already knew I was very much interested, and I would be good company during his hunting outings. Dad never asked twice in regard to accompanying him on a pheasant hunt. I became his scout and bird dog, spotting and retrieving birds.
My first solo varmint hunt occurred the day of my ninth birthday. That Daisy Red Rider mentioned earlier, showed up along with a chocolate cake and nine candles. After one verse of Happy Birthday, I received the traditional swats on the butt to complete the event, and out the door I went. Red Rider in one hand, dime pack of BBs in the other. Mom and Dad both shouting “Be careful!”. A quick sight-in on a can and I was ready to wage war with the black bird population. Knocking my first bird off the incinerator reinforced the fact I was a proficient marksman, regardless of the fact I shot up most of the dime pack of BBs. I was a hunter at age nine. That would be the first of many solo safaris. It was a good day.
Well, I’ve rambled on long enough. I’ll close by saying I hope you’re doing well, and you found my reminiscing somewhat entertaining. Keep in touch, I’ll get back to you later.
Take care,
Laser Man
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