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Got one? Gunsmoke 'em if ya' got 'em.
I don't have one. The J frame is too small for my hand. And I don't shoot light guns well. My .22 handgun is a Colt Woodsman I inherited from my mother, one of the guns I grew up on. She used it to hunt snowshoe rabbits in Alaska. And to chase off a couple of wannabe rapists on an isolated island in the gulf off Florida when dad was off fishing.
 
That SW looks mighty fine. At 700 though, eek!

I know I need to eventually give up the notion that rimfire firearms can be expensive. I just haven't gotten there yet!
 
I don't have one. The J frame is too small for my hand. And I don't shoot light guns well. My .22 handgun is a Colt Woodsman I inherited from my mother, one of the guns I grew up on. She used it to hunt snowshoe rabbits in Alaska. And to chase off a couple of wannabe rapists on an isolated island in the gulf off Florida when dad was off fishing.
The stories around inherited guns are part of the appeal. I've told about the two wannabe rapists elsewhere. I was one of the two small children with my mother that day.

Then there was the year in Alaska when the weather turned frigid with no snow. The snowshoe rabbits all turned white, and did not realize they were not invisible. So they would freeze and expect you to walk right by when they were pure white against a brown background. There were lots of rabbit stews that year.

Then there was the ghost in the attic. The family had just moved into a cabin in the Anchorage area right after WWII when most military were still waiting to be demobillized. The closest neighbor was miles away. The neighbor told my mother that there had been a murder in the cabin, and it was haunted. Dad was away on a mission somewhere the night my mom heard footsteps in the attic. The footsteps approached the stairs to the downstairs. At the bottom of the stairs, her Colt Woodsman in one hand, a flashlight in the other, my mother stood between the unknown danger and her sleeping children. The footsteps started coming down the stairs. Mother turned the flashlight on. But there was nothing there! The sound of the footsteps kept coming!

Then Mother's eyes adjusted and she looked a little lower. And there on the stairs, blinking sleepily, was a fat racoon. It had found a way into the attic and had been trying to hibernate. When we moved into the cabin and started using the wood stove its sleep was disturbed. Mother, realizing all this, simply opened the front door and stood aside. The coon bumbled down the rest of the stairs and off into the night.
 
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