By Danny Maybin
Any time I walk into a restaurant, store or gas station across the Mason Dixon line or the Mississippi River, before saying anything I am invariably asked, “Where you from?” I’ve tried many times to figure it out. I guess I just walk “Deep South” and when I tell them, it’s always, “that’s what I thought” but never offering a clue as to how they deduced my geographical origin.
I do know that I don’t move fast enough in the Northeast. I move too fast in Arkansas and I apparently look too friendly in Illinois. I guess I shouldn’t overthink it because, wherever I roam, folks always seem pleased to talk with a southerner.
A while back, my son and I drove out to the Midwest for a national shotgun competition. He was the competitor. I was just the driver, coach and money spender!
I’m sure somewhere there is a concrete spire or monument that says, “This is the exact center of the United States”. I don’t know where it is, but I’m pretty sure it’s somewhere in Grand Island, Nebraska.
The first day was a practice day and despite the 96 degree temperature, everything went great. We were all ready to compete. Then, on the first day of competition his gun started jamming and after thousands of miles and thousands of dollars, I was struggling to maintain that positive, thankful attitude I am always preaching about to him. Something had to be done and fast! These size competitions don’t wait for anyone!
In desperation I went to the range office to see if they could recommend a good local gunsmith. The guy immediately wrote down a number and a name but offered no hope if he couldn’t be reached, which raised my anxiety even more. The smith’s name was Wade and his shop was at his house about twenty miles from the motel in a little town called Cairo, pronounced kay-row. I’m not going into details but I cannot emphasize enough how important it is to not pronounce it like the city in Egypt.
So, with an address plugged into google maps, I loaded up the gun and headed out into the unknown. I drove in a blind panic for the next thirty minutes, directly into the setting sun with nothing to look at but a distant horizon and haunted by the thought that it’s as obvious as a pickle in a peach pie that I’m not from around here.
When my phone said I had reached my destination, on the right, I was relieved to see a nicely appointed two story house and what I guessed was Wade’s truck in the driveway. I hopped out and went up the steps. The door was open but the glass storm door was closed. Feeling better about this by the minute, I rapped several times on the glass. Almost immediately, I was eye to eye with a huge dog with a growl like a grizzly and the teeth of a T Rex. I was suddenly thankful that I hadn’t stopped for a water on the way. Immediately, Wade, I could only assume, had the beast by the collar and was struggling to get him behind another door but his bark was still rattling the storm door. As Wade struggled to shut the door between himself and the dog, he motioned with his free hand and said “come around back, that’s where my shop is”.
I managed an “ok” and turned for my car when it hit me. I don’t know anything about this person. Go around back? What if unsuspecting, out of state customers are how he’s feeding that beast! It was just a fleeting thought but enough to slow my step. So I told myself, “relax, you’re a guy’s guy”. “You’re six feet and two hundred plus and you’re up here at a shooting competition for Pete’s sake!” With my nerves settled and courage bolstered, I fired up the Prius and drove around back.
Arriving at his shop, “around back” there was a simple plank board sign over the door that just said “Wade’s” with what looked like teeth marks in it. The window shaking barks now sounded much further away and I could see through the window what looked like specialized tools and parts of guns lying here and there. I began to feel a little silly for letting my imagination get the best of me so I popped the hatch, retrieved the gun and went in the shop. At this point the only thing that I’ve said to Wade is, “ok”, so what is the first thing he says to me? Yep. “Where ya from?” I told him and he said, “That’s what I thought”. I’ve never been able to discern what folks mean when they say that.
Turns out, Wade was a really nice guy. We started all the regular conversation men have when they don’t know one another. Fishing, hunting, and trucks were the main topics and as I was learning where to fish up there, Wade busied himself with the shotgun. I was beginning to settle in for some good fishing tales when I happened to glance at his workbench. My shotgun was nowhere to be seen and in its place was, like five hundred little parts and a stock! Apparently Wade was very proficient at his trade and I could only hope he was as good at putting them back together as he was at taking them apart! Turns out he was. He finished up, test fired it several times and slid it back in the case.
Now it was time to settle up. Like all the folks that ask me the same question, it was now my turn to ask what I seem to end up asking everyone in the shooting business. “How much do I owe you?” He replied in what I thought a bit of an odd way, “What’s it worth to you?” Before I could get out a “well” he grinned and said, “I’ll be right back, I’ve got to feed my dog”. Now I’m not saying that had any bearing on my estimation of his work but the longer he stayed gone, the more I came to realize his mastery of the trade and the value of which I should reward such craftsmanship!
When he finally returned, my wallet was lying on the workbench and I was going through my pockets for loose change. I think Wade kind of figured out what was going on but graciously tried to hide his amusement. He said “Gimme fifty bucks” which was about a third of what I’d expected.
After all our business was concluded and it was obviously time for me to go, I couldn’t resist asking Wade about a good place to fish while I was in town. Before arriving in Grand Island, I had seen the Platte River on a map, snaking through the edge of town and had great hopes of getting in a little fishing while I was there. Just the name Grand Island had set my imagination ablaze, thinking of a wide, bold river where I could catch plenty of fish and possibly bag a memory or two. Turns out the river bed seemed to average somewhere between 30 and 50 feet wide but the little stream meandering down the middle of it couldn’t have been over 6 gallons per minute!
I was crushed. I had never been this far from a large body of water in any direction in my life. It was sort of like being a squirrel on an airplane.
Wade assured me that there were plenty of fishing opportunities but I would do best by driving up to the Dakotas for some great walleye fishing, except that it was not the best time of year. He said the winter ice fishing was the most productive. Problem was, by that time, I would be in South Georgia after bass and red fin pike. Trying to hide my disappointment, I thanked Wade and headed back to the motel.
For the duration of the shooting competition my Midwest fishing experience consisted of me sullenly catching bluegill in a postage stamp sized pond behind our motel. I guess if there was a silver lining to the disappointing fishing, it was that I now had gotten on the offensive and was making great sport in asking everyone I met, “Where you from?” and taking great delight in their bewildered looks as I would answer, “That’s what I thought”.
Danny Maybin’s family has fished and hunted in the area of Lake Summit for at least six generations. He is a state firearms instructor a, blacksmith, musician/luthier, and his favorite, a fishin’ and hunting resort facilitator. He also does voice acting, copywriting, and short story humor.