By Charles Dixon T HE TIME was about 1955, in northcentral Pennsylvania and the teenage boy was me. A perfect Saturday in November and a respite from the confines of the schoolhouse. The stage was set for a memorable day. A dawn breakfast of country ham and eggs, a leftover piece of ham wrapped in wax paper was tucked into a pocket of my dad's too large Filson coat. My dad had worn that coat so long that you could have filled it with plaster and had a perfect body mold. My versatile hunting dog was sleeping in an out-of-the-way spot in the kitchen and showed little interest until the bolt action shotgun came out of the NOVEMBER 2013 closet. That shotgun and a Winchester .30-30 set me back 100 hard-earned dollars and elevated a mere boy to the upper echelons of the local hunting fraternity. My initial impulse had been to spend it all on a Winchester .270 until the "ballistic experts" at the local Esso station set me straight. A .270, they opined, shot so fast that you could shoot right through a deer and do no appreciable damage. Those same experts were also generous with their advice on shotgun ammo - low brass shells were good only for shooting rats in the cupboard without breaking dishes, and only for someone not manly enough to handle 19