The Airweight

I graduated from Purdue University in January 1970 with a dual degree in Journalism and History.  I tried to make a "go" of self-publishing but failed. Consequently, I took a real job in March 1972 as Managing Editor for "The Zionsville Times" in Zionsville, Indiana.

The owner of the newspaper was a pompous jerk who had nothing but contempt for his advertisers and subscribers.  Right from the "git  go" the local folks urged me to start up a newspaper to compete with "The Zionsville Times."  Considering that The Times was founded in 1860, that seemed an impossible dream.

Finally, however, my wife and I started "The Zionsville Main Street" newspaper on August 8, 1972.  It sold for "one red cent" and was printed on Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday on both sides of a single 11 by 17 sheet of paper.  I made my reputation for that newspaper by covering every single call out of the local volunteer fire department and also by getting the Friday night football game results into the next morning's newspaper.

Within one year, we captured 90% of the advertisers and subscribers from The Times.  The owner absconded town in the middle of the night.  The former owner then sold us The Times for pennies on the dollar.  At that point, we were well positioned for long term success.

Even though we could have backed off our intensive coverage of fires and traffic accidents, we decided to become even more dedicated to such coverage and eventually won a state press association award for our photo coverage of various tragedies.

One night I went out to the scene of a very sad fatality.  The drunk driver of the early 70's muscle car had been go going too fast, the car went airborne completely across a wide creek.  While in mid-air, the car turned upside down and sideways and t-boned into a large hardwood tree on the other side of the creek.  The impact killed the passenger instantly.  However, the drunk driver, as is often the case, survived although he was badly injured.

I took a lot of photos of the grisly scene, including the empty beer cans strewn everywhere and duly reported the facts of the situation.

Meanwhile, time passed.  One morning, I was sitting in my office shuffling papers and answering phone calls when I heard a really loud noise and a gasp from our elderly receptionist, Viola.  An enraged young male burst into my office shouting obscenities at the top of his lungs.

His eyes were bloodshot.  His face was scarred with fresh stitches and his right arm was in a sling.  He rushed to my desk and began shouting that he was going to kill me.  It was the driver of the car in the incident described above.

The man went on and on about how he would have killed me right then and there if he had use of his right arm or had a gun.  He said he was going to kill me just as soon as he could and shouted obscenities about my coverage of the fatal wreck in which he had been the drunk driver.

Finally, he stormed back out of the office with as much noise and bluster as he could muster.  My Staff and I were in shock.  Some of the women were crying while others simply sat at their desks and stared with a blank look on their faces.

I leaped from my desk and practically ran to the nearby Town Marshall's Office to report the threatening incident.  The Marshall was an Old Man on the tail end of a long law enforcement career.  He listened patiently and calmly reached into his desk and pulled out what looked like a Doctor's prescription pad.

While he was still listening to me, he scribbled something on the pad.  Then he looked me straight in the eyes with his old, steel gray stare and said, "John, I have no doubt that man will kill you unless you protect yourself.  I can't protect you.  Only you can protect yourself.  Here is a permit to carry a concealed pistol.  Go to the Barber Shop, tell Bill The Barber to take you to the gun shop in Lebanon, Indiana, right now.  Buy whatever pistol Bill tells you to buy.  Learn how to use it before you come back to Zionsville.  Carry it where ever you go and sleep with it at night.  Good Luck."

And that was it.  He had said his piece.  Well, I took the paper and shook his hand and then practically ran to the small town's only barber shop.  Bill Cripe was the barber.  Bill was almost always asleep in one of his barber chairs, all stretched out and snoring like a freight train.  If you wanted a hair cut, you had to shake Bill and wake him up.  After he shook off his nap, he'd be ready to cut your hair.

Bill kept an old hog leg 45 Long Colt revolver just out of sight but always at easy reach.  He was fond of pulling out that 10-inch barrel blunderbuss to wave it around once in awhile.  "No body better mess with me," he'd say and then he'd put that howitzer back in its place.

Well, I shook Bill awake and blurted out my story and Bill was wide awake faster than I'd ever seen him rally up.  The second I finished my story he just, "Let's GO!" and he hung his "Closed" sign and locked the door and we hurried north to the Boone County Seat in Bill's old beater Buick four-holer.

Bill talked about how the Lebanon gun shop had been around forever going back to his Grand Dad's Days but he said the shop didn't ever carry much inventory.  He said we'd have to take whatever they had, even if it wasn't the perfect pistol.  We made it to Lebanon in record time taking short cuts on gravel roads and fish tailing around country cornfield corners.

We hurried into the gun shop so fast we startled the owner and Bill yelled out, "It's me, Jake, calm down."
Bill went right to the pistol case and practically shouted out the word "YES!"  He turned and said, "I can't believe it, John, they got the perfect pistol for you--an Airweight!"

Well, heck, at that time, I didn't know the difference between and Airweight and an Airhead.  Bill said, "Show him your paper from The Marshall."  I pulled out the wrinkled slip and the shop owner smiled and put the boxed pistol in my hands and said, "This pistol will serve you well as long as you live."

Bill also picked out an old H&R nine shot .22 revolver with a really long barrel. He made me buy a bunch of ammo for both of them and then we drove to a gravel pit to start shooting. My hand was plumb wore out but the time we got back to Zionsville around dinner time.

Bill said, "I'll spread the word around town that you're armed and dangerous and you know how to shoot your Airweight.  I doubt that guy will now ever make his attempt to kill you, John, but carry your Airweight everywhere and sleep with it.  Practice every chance you get and let it be known you won't back down."

Well, Zionsville was a tiny town back then, perhaps 650 people.  Gossip was a mainstay of the little town's culture.  Bill The Barber was arguably the town's leading male gossiper.  So, it was no surprise the story of the death threat and our trip to Lebanon made it all around town before the sun went down that day. By morning, everyone had heard several versions of the story.

Fortunately, I never saw the perp of the death threat again.  However, I was still looking over my shoulder over a year later.  Only when I heard he had left the area and moved far out-of-state did I begin to relax my guard.

Thus began a 40+ year relationship with The Airweight.  There are plenty more stories to tell.  We will attempt to add stories as time and inclination become available.