What goes around…

Early last century a man of Russian nobility came to the United States.  Little is known about him, but his nobility and loyalty to Czar Nicholas seem to be beyond question.  By a circuitous route he came to Milwaukee where many of his countrymen had settled.  His true name is unknown, having taken another.  He plotted to take back his Mother Russia from the Bolsheviks, but was poisoned, or assassinated, depending upon who you ask.  He gave birth to daughters, one of them named Alexandria, his son Nicholas having died at birth.  Alexandria, known throughout her life as “Alice”, gave birth to Bernadine, and Bernadine to Arthur.  Alice, Bernadine and Arthur never knew the Russia of their forefather.

In the closing days of the World War II, (or “The Great Patriotic War” as it is known to a Soviet) a Russian soldier wounded in the Battle of Bryansk convalesced in a hospital. That man’s name was Mikhail Kalashnikov.  During his convalescence he designed a rifle that would someday become the most successful and prolific battle rifle of modern times:  the AK47.  Not only was the rifle successful as a weapon, but it became an icon of sorts symbolizing communism worldwide.  Few Cold War symbols were stronger or better recognized than the AK47. As it turns out, as you well know, the Cold War ended and Communism died in the former Soviet Union.  Trade opened up with Russia and things such as the civilian version of the AK47 made it to or shores.

Arthur has been a shooter since he was old enough to shoot.  Bernadine had a strong say in how old that was.   One of the rifles that Arthur owns is the Russian made civilian version of the Mikhail Kalashnikov’s AK47, one made at the renowned IZHMASH factory.  While Arthur thoroughly enjoys shooting the rifle it also stands as a reminder to him that all things are possible with time and perseverance.   It’s also a reminder of his ancestry.

Yesterday while moving some boxes Arthur leaned the AK rifle up against a desk.  While he thought the rifle was solidly in place it started to slide in an arc rapidly towards the ground.  The rifle never hit the ground.  No, the rifle landed squarely on Arthur’s barefooted left big toe.  The excruciating pain was immediate resulting in a five minute waltz around the room speaking in tongues the likes of which have rarely been uttered.  As the pain resided to mere agony Arthur tended to his rifle finding the Cold War icon unmarked and undamaged.  No worse for the wear, and despite relief at finding it so, it’s resiliency seemed to mock him and his battered White Russian left toe.

As I stood in my workshop holding the rifle, toe throbbing, I had this image of my great grandfather rolling his eyes saying “figures”, and another of Mikhail Kalashnikov saying “serves him right.”  I’ve had a good chuckle over it.

Problem is that it only hurts when I laugh.

Ironic. Nyet?