You can’t go home again.

Thomas Wolf’s novel and the phase of its title has come to mean that we as humans remember things from our past in an over-positive light.    Our memory focuses on the good things from the past and the more unpleasant parts fade from our mind.  Because of this, when we try to go back, and relive some of those memories, the negative seems to stand out more,  and we can’t find the happiness we might be looking for.  We look for that sweet memory, but we can’t go home again.

What the heck does this have to do with the Williamson Conservation and Sporting Club?

Might I suggest,  a lot.

Formally known as the Williamson Rod and Gun Club,  the place holds an incredibly special place in my heart and mind.

My father and grandfather were life members, they helped build the place.

My father served as treasure for many years.   I have vivid memories of him working on the financial reports at our kitchen table.  Watching his fingers fly as he counted coins.  Listening to him add up columns of numbers, doing the math in his head, never using a calculator.

He was also a skeet shooter,  and that is what I remember the most.   When I was very young,  I got to tag along once in a while.  I’d sit inside the clubhouse with ear plugs and watch my dad shoot on the first field.

As I got older,  I got to sit outside, in front of the building.  It was so exciting to watch my dad and the other shooters complete a round.

Over time,  I got to know my dads friends.  All good people,  all good shooters, all very different in background, but united in their love for the sport.  

When I was a teenager,  I got to work at the league skeet shoots.   Filling the traps,  picking up shells,  cleaning up after.   I got paid $20 for the weekend, and a cheeseburger each day.  It was great.

Overtime,  dad got older and didn’t shoot as much.   I got older and didn’t go to the club with him anymore.

More time went by, and dad didn’t shoot anymore, and I started a family and didn’t think much more about shotguns or the club house on Pound Road.

And more time went by,  and dad was gone.

I hadn’t given much thought to shooting sports in years,  but something about losing dad sparked an interest in me again.

I picked up a 22 rifle for target shooting, and then when we had settled everything with mom and dad’s house, and paid all the bills,  there was a few hundred bucks for each of us kids.    I decided dad would want me to get a shotgun.  

So I did.

And I joined the Williamson Conservation and Sporting Club, and I started shooting again.

And I got hooked.   Skeet, trap, sporting clays, CMP shoots.  I enjoyed it all.

It was so cool to see so many of the names I remembered from during my dad’s skeet shooting time hung up on the posts in the range.   And to get my dads name up there too.

I learned a ton,  met a bunch of great people and helped out however I could.  

It’s been a great few years.

And then,  they asked me if I’d like to be President of the club.

Wait, What?

Not sure I’m qualified, not sure what I’ll do, not sure this is the right things to do.

But then, I thought about my dad.

If someone asked him for help with something, he’d figure out a way to do it,  and do it well.

So,  here I am.   The new president of the Williamson Conservation and Sporting Club.

It’s not the same place where I spent time growing up,  but I know dad would be very proud of what it is today.

I’ve said before, that there is a beautiful piece of granite just west of Pultneyville, on the north side of Lake Road, says Montondo on it.   And if I want to spend quiet time with my mom and dad, share some flowers,  it’s a great place to be.

But

If I really want to spend time with my dad, and hear him laugh when I miss an easy clay pigeon,  or hear him say “there you go”  when I make a good shot.   Or now say “what do you know about that” when he learns about the new president of WCSP, well, check for me on Pound Road,  that’s where we will  be.

You can’t go home again,  but this is pretty close.