74 Nebraskaland • November 2021
THE LAST STOP
By Jeff Kurrus
A CLASS RING OR AN .870
Dad pleaded with me, knowing the inevitable
outcome. I was 17-years-old and looking at a
catalog of senior class rings.
"Forget the ring. I'll buy you an .870 pump
instead," he said, convinced of the short shelf life
of the ring and the girlfriend's finger it would be
placed on.
But I was hard-headed, despite spending much
of my free time during those years in floodplain
water chasing mallards. So, I chose a ring with
all the predictable etchings — baseball uniform
number, a white-tailed buck and a largemouth
bass.
Several weeks later, that ring came in the mail.
And I wore it proudly … right up until the point it
was on some girl's finger.
While Dad and I never spoke about it, I imagine
we agree that it was about the worst $200 I had
ever asked him and Mom to spend on anything —
soccer camp included.
Even worse, less than a year later, in 1994, I took
my own money and bought that .870 myself. Since
that purchase, I've shot ducks, geese and upland
birds from southern Mississippi to northern
Nebraska. Its had rust sanded off its metal and
camo tape applied to its stock.
It's been caked in mud, stepped on by any number
of people and animals, and underwater more times
than I can count — like in this Rainwater Basin
image from last hunting season.
As far as the ring? I have no idea of its
whereabouts. I'm sure it's gathering dust
somewhere.
Something my .870 has never done.
