by Hap Rocketto
During one memorable epoch in my antediluvian past I sat behind Cathy Robert, “Roc” following immediately after “Rob” in the alphabet, in Russell Harris’ College Preparatory English III class. I occupied the last desk in the long row of, even then ancient, bolted down, dark wood, inkwell equipped pews in the cathedral of learning that passed for the New London High School’s Chapman Building. I usually passed the hour trying to evade Mr. Harris’ attention. I weaved, bobbed, ducked, and swayed behind Cathy in an attempt to duplicate each of her movements so as not be seen by the teacher. It was no mean task as she was, and still is, a graceful ballet dancer, I was and am anything but. Cathy was also one-third my size. Perhaps had I worked harder on the subject at hand and less at trying to hide behind Cathy I might have gotten a grade higher than D in English. A particular irony when one considers that I spend a good deal of my time nowadays casting sentences as a wordsmith. Cathy eventually ended up with a doctorate in English Literature, teaching at one of the swanky small private colleges just off of the Philadelphia Main Line. I, on the hand, earned advanced degrees in Triggernometry.
Mr. Harris’ curriculum was that of American Literature and he was particularly enamored of the Transcendentalist School, a literary and philosophical movement that flourished in New England from about 1836 to 1860. Some of its more famous adherents were Ralph Waldo Emerson, Henry David Thoreau- Mr. Harris favorite, and Bronson Alcott. They postulated that individual intuition is the highest source of knowledge, which led them to an optimistic emphasis on individualism and self-reliance. They reflected, or perhaps created, the image of the flinty New Englander who stood on his own and relied on himself. I particularly am fond of two of Emerson’s essays, “Gifts” and “Self Reliance.” In the former he states that the best gifts are not bought, but from the heart. In the latter, the seed for all of today’s self help books, he writes, and this may be oversimplification, that each of us must trust ourselves and not rely on others.
In “Self Reliance” he also wrote that, “A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of a simple mind…” I have to disagree with the great man on this thought and therein lies the core of this little essay. During the past Connecticut Big Bore Rifle League season Shawn Carpenter and I have been sharing my Remington Model 700 caliber 222 rifle. I have been loading the ammo and then coaching Shawn, who, taking advantage of my good nature, was beating me like a piñata at a kindergarten kid’s birthday party.
I was unable to make a match as it conflicted with a major cross-country meet in which my daughter Leah was participating. Having made arrangements to deliver the rifle and ammunition to Shawn I grabbed everything and, much to my surprise, found that all of the ammo boxes were filled with expended brass. I dashed down stairs; pulled the cover from the reloading gear and feverishly started hand rolling 50 rounds. The humidity was making the powder stick in the drop tube and I was not really attending to the job at hand. Ham fisted in my impatience I crushed more than a few primers in the indecently short amount of time I took to complete this most delicate of tasks.
When I turned the stuff over to Shawn I mentioned the problem with the powder and facetiously suggested he take some 308 with him, just in case he had to use my brother Steve’s rifle. I promptly forgot about things and went about my business. A few days later an email arrived and Shawn told me that he had an interesting adventure. One round failed to fire and he extracted it and loaded another, not noticing that the bullet from the first round had seated itself in the bore. The next round also failed to go off and was extracted. It was then that he saw the obstruction. The bullet was pushed out with a cleaning rod and he continued. He didn’t say if he was at all nervous but he did finish with a score of 396X400, so I guess he wasn’t.
There was one round of unfired ammo and the two bad rounds, both with expended primers, left for me to conduct an investigation. Pulling the bullet on the last cartridge revealed that it had powder in it and was, in all respects, normal. I suspect that I had not followed my regular routine in my rush and simply missed filling the two cases with powder. Luck was with us as Shawn had pulled those two out in order and avoided disaster. Usually very ordered and consistent in following a tried and true routine in reloading I had failed to do so this time and dodged, so to speak, a bullet.
What Emerson was unaware of when he wrote his line on consistency is that there is no foolish consistency in the simple chore of reloading if one wants to avoid the twin hobgoblins of inaccuracy and danger.
