© Christopher Allen 2020 All Rights Reserved

Well hello there. It’s so nice to meet you. May I introduce myself? My name is Kay. Kay Frame. I was born in late March of 1927 in Springfield, Massachusetts. The exact day isn’t important but it was the 28th if you really must know. The same year D.R. Fitzpatrick lampooned corporate and consumer greed when he called Henry Ford’s Model ‘T’ the tin god. And Ford’s new assembly line format was followed by many others causing fear to spread among the working class that labor-saving devices would cause unemployment. Yes, the 1920s were the best of times and worst of times. You see, everyone was having the time of their lives. The Great War had ended just before the decade started and the economy was booming. Parties and making money were the order of the day. And with Prohibition going into effect at the dawning of the 20s parties and money were definitely at the forefront. As was crime. The decade wasn’t called the “Roaring 20s” for nothing.

Being a Smith and Wesson .38 Military & Police Model of 1905 Fourth Change puts me in the family tree of the venerable Model 10 revolver. My grandfather, the Smith & Wesson .38 Hand Ejector Model of 1899, came into the world the same year as Ernest Hemingway. I mention him because the year I arrived is shared with when he divorced his first wife Hadley and married Pauline. But that’s another story.

Anyway, my own story had much more humble beginnings. You see, when I left Springfield it was with nine of my siblings. Eight of us were chrome plated while two were dark complected with bluing. Us brighter ones were evenly divided between six-inch and five-inch barrels. We were all delivered together to a hardware store in Alabama. It figures I’d wind up with a southern farmer being used to shoot squirrels and snakes. I’m guessing the two blued guns with five-inch barrels went to work with a military man or even the police. They don’t like shiny guns with long barrels. They’ll have an exciting time while I’ll sit around and have no stories to tell to my grand kids.

I was right. One Saturday as soon as I arrived a local farmer came into Long’s Hardware in Jefferson County and picked me up along with a short shovel, a twenty pound maul axe, and a small single edged hatchet. I think he ordered me from the catalog because I never made it out to a display case. While farmer Brown held me at the counter and worked the action I heard him mention to the clerk how he decided on the chrome finish because it offered better protection against moisture of sweaty hands and weather. All I could think was, this is great… I’ll wind up bouncing around in a holster or a tool box while this guy’s out plowing the back forty. Some life.

As it turned out there was to be a ‘Red Letter’ day for the city of Birmingham this same year. My new owner decided to make the trip to Roberts Field with a buddy to see the stop-over of Charles Lindbergh and his Spirit of St. Louis. I didn’t think anything of going along since I was in the habit of tagging along in a hip holster everywhere he went. There were thousands there to greet Lindbergh but when he departed we were still in the city. I didn’t know why we remained. Then I learned the truth. My owner and his friend were active members of a local Klan group and had gone to Birmingham to commit terrorism against some immigrant business people. Going to see Lindbergh had only been seen as a convenient cover story for having made the trip.

Somehow they managed to lure an unsuspecting Italian merchant back to Roberts Field late in the afternoon. During much of the 1920s there had been a string of attacks on Greek, Italian, and Jewish immigrants in the city by unknown perpetrators with many murdered and just as many more maimed in axe attacks. Apparently the gruesome attacks were meant to frighten away the survivors. My boss and his partner intended to do the deed in a remote part of the field just at sunset and travel back to the far western part of the county that evening. Another part of their plan to cover their tracks.

Right at sunset the victim arrived and was met by the two as he closed the door of his car. Both men drew axes from under their jackets but this time was different. There had been so many of these types of attacks for so many years this victim was prepared. And he had not gone alone. Three more men emerged from the parked car just as the attack began. It was now four to the attackers’ pair.

Although the two were armed with small axes and holstered handguns they were quickly overpowered by the four. In short order they were disarmed of all their weapons and I was used by the intended victim to kill both men. I was now spoils of war and had a new home. The two Klan farmers were found at the airfield the following day. This was the same year the state started using the electric chair for executions but it had little effect on the activity in the city. The victim demographic had had enough. No longer would ineffective police detectives be brought in. The problem was dealt with most effectively and quietly by the private sector. No one was ever arrested or charged for these killings.

After a couple of years of sitting under the store clerk’s cash register; occasionally brandished when a trouble maker came in, I was given to a young man who had joined the police force. I think he was a nephew. It was the new order of the day that police revolvers were of the four-inch barrel variety so as to fit the uniform holster they all carried. To avoid buying a new gun for the high price of $34.00 he took me to a smith and had my barrel cut down. I must admit he did a good job. I look nice. You can hardly tell it was a cut job. Very professional. I was now an official four-inch barrel police duty gun. I had earned my badge and was now one of the good guys.

One December night in ’36 we were in an alley on a walking beat when we heard glass break. Then came the cry of a cat and a little more falling glass pieces. Then dead silence. A very faint breeze could be detected but nothing more. Deafening silence. We moved toward where the sound came from. There was a crunching sound made with each step in the freshly fallen snow. It sounded much louder than it actually was. As we got closer I was pulled from my cozy holster and brought up to lead the way.

Since we were in an alley and there was no call box anywhere around we continued toward the back of the office building with no backup. There was no time to run find one and call for help. When we got to the building we turned the corner and could see someone climbing out of a broken ground level window. All I remember was hearing yelling, the perp spinning around and raising his arm, and next thing you know me and the other fella’s gun let off. I let go four rounds as I felt a sinking sensation. We were going to the ground. I could see the other gun and his person were also falling backwards. I was on my side in the snow. Everything got real still and quiet.

I was taken back in by the family and was once again back home on my little shelf under the cash register. I think I was forgotten about because I wasn’t taken out of my little spot for fourteen years. Not even shown to anyone or taken target shooting. I just sat there on eternal guard duty. Then in 1950 the little shop owner died and his widow sold the store. She took me home and I lived with her in lonely retirement. Here at home with her I slept for another twenty eight years in her night stand drawer. When she finally passed away at a ripe old age I was discovered by one of the adult children and I went to live with them.

I was fifty-one years old now but I looked pretty much like the new ones rolling out of the factory. No one could look at me and tell my age. Young folks would even say I was stainless steel when holding me and talking about me. Stainless steel didn’t even exist in my day. I am chrome plated, thank you. Which looks much shinier and better if you ask me.

I was finally abandoned once again when they sold me off cheap to a second hand dealer in the city. It was actually a pawn shop. How degrading. All kind of characters rolled through the place. It never failed either that they wanted to take me out of the case and handle the hardware. This was so demeaning. I had no home and no family anymore. I felt like a late-in-life lonely homeless drifter. What had happened to me?

Finally in 1983 a nice young man rescued me from that life and gave me a new home. He was just getting out of the army and had ambitions of starting a police career. He thought he would use me as his partner like that nice young man did back in the 30s. Since I had been carried and shot very little I still looked almost like a new one. He didn’t know the difference. And I wasn’t about to tell him either. I was more than ready to get back out in the world and have a few more adventures.

Now here we are today. That nice young man is now a white haired retired cop. I still live with him and I guess I will until he passes away. After that I have no idea what will become of me.  In my 93 years I think I’ve seen it all. I’ve lived it all. On both sides of the fence. I prefer on this side of the past 30 years. I guess that’s what worries me the most. I know my kind doesn’t work in a cop’s holster anymore. My day has finally come and gone. They carry those fancy new autoloaders now. Unless I’m taken into someone’s home again I may wind up on the dark side. I don’t think I could bear it. I do so hope my last years pass with dignity.