The Mysterious Pistol

The day before we buried Dad at Fort Gibson, my step-mom Jere’ took me over to visit with my Aunt Beverly. I hadn’t seen her since 1964 when my Grandma Agnes died. 

The last time I had been to her home, the field across the street was completely vacant. I also don’t remember there being any houses on either side of the home. 

That day we played with a mini-camera one of my cousins had ordered from the back of a comic book. I also recall falling in the street while running to the ice-cream truck. 

When we pulled up into the drive, I saw a wooden ramp leading into her house. I was surprised to find Aunt Bev in a wheelchair after having lost her leg in a warehouse accident. 

It was an uncomfortable time as I was trying to deal with the grief of losing my father and trying to sort out some of the tales he had told over the years. One of those tales involved a silver pistol with pearl handle grips. 

Evidently Aunt Bev had given it to Dad to use and she never got it back. I remember an older man, I didn’t know, coming to our home in Klamath asking me about a gun of the same description. 

While I had seen it one time, I lied to him, telling him I have no idea what he was talking about. That was in 1972. 

By the time we ended our visit, Aunt Bev made it known that she wanted that pistol back. Jere’ and I searched through everything Dad had in their home—but no silver pistol with pearl grips. 

Aunt Bev hasn’t spoken or written to me since I reported back to her that the pistol wasn’t found and we used to be in regular contact. I wish I understood why that gun was so important to so many people. 

It’s my guess that it’ll remain an unsolved family mystery.