Meet the Members
Get to know the stories and passions of our amazing archery community.
Harry
Wow That Sure Is Valuable!
I was born in a small town in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, in the year 1954. My father owned a store on Chester Avenue, located in a blue-collar neighborhood. It was a very busy street with large row homes, and a storefront attached to every third or fourth home on the block. I lived in one of those homes—with a storefront. On my block, there was a paint store, a food store, a doctor's office, and my father's business. In those days, no one knew what a credit or debit card was. Business transactions were done mainly with cash or checks. At that time, the average worker finished work around 4 or 5 PM daily. Banks weren't located on every corner and typically closed at 3 PM. Seeing a need for the area's working residents to cash paychecks and pay utility bills after the banks had closed created a great business opportunity for my father. Thus was born a neighborhood check cashing, greeting card, and small toy business. The business required large amounts of cash to be on hand. The money was kept in a safe located in the store's basement. The safe was a 4x4x4 cube, dark in color, with a brass combination dial about five inches in diameter. To deter potential robbery—and more importantly, to remain safe—a large bulletproof window, heavy-duty door, and reinforced walls were installed. Each customer would walk up to what looked like a bank teller window to conduct their business. Above the window, mounted on two pegs, was a chrome-plated, 3-inch barrel, 5-shot U.S. Revolver in .38 S&W caliber. The gun was out of the customer's view. Its location served a purpose: if the words “stick 'em up” were ever heard, you would raise your hands—giving the easiest access to the gun without alarming the robber with any sudden movement. The idea was to have your hands around the handle, ready to blast the robber in the back as he left the store. In the 1950s, the justice system would certainly favor a business owner defending their life and property in such a case. (Try shooting the bad guy in the back today.) Fortunately, the store was never robbed. My father's store was sold in 1959. A few years later, my father learned the new owner had been killed in a robbery—but no further details were ever given. At just 5 years old, I remember playing in the store and looking out the bulletproof window, watching customers come up to the window to cash their checks, buy greeting cards, and pick out small toys for their families. This story is told from my memory as a 5-year-old child, with my father later filling in some of the gaps. The gun remains in my family, along with this story, to be passed down. The gun has minimal collector value. But how does a person put a value on a piece of family history that has lasted three generations?
Brian & Daughter Ashley
Mentor
One day during a Fishing Derby with my daughter, we were each using two rods for better chances at hooking the BIG one. While I was assisting her with something, one of my rods got a huge strike! Down the bank and into the water it went, dragging the other rod along with it! We managed to save one rod, but the other—with the fish still on it—went deep into the water. I tried to toss her in to get it, but she wanted no part of that. At all. So we tried to recover the rod using a rowboat, long poles, and nets, dragging the bottom—with no luck. I figured I'd give it one last try. I hooked on the biggest fishing lure I had and gave it the cast of a lifetime. After a few minutes, I HAD SOMETHING. Could it be the rod and reel? I slowly reeled in my catch to find that—no way—it really was my rod and reel!I picked it up and doink-doink—there was a fish tugging on it! Yes, it sounds like one of those fish stories, but we have witnesses. I reeled it in, and there was the big old fish still attached, who almost took my nice rod and reel combo to the murky depths of the pond.
Edger & Father Jay
Mentor
One story I remember well is when I was about twelve years old. It was my first real deer hunt, and it was about 20 below zero—with the wind chill making it even worse! My father had taken me on a two-hour 4x4 ride in a hunter-packed, full-size Ford Bronco into the mountains of Mifflin County. I believe we left around 3AM. To me, this was the adventure of a lifetime. Once we reached the entry area and placed all the other hunters, we proceeded to his spot—in between two ridges with a babbling brook in the middle. Curious as I always was, I asked, Why? Of course, the first thing I heard was, Shhhhhh, be quiet now. Then he explained in an almost silent whisper how the deer would do a figure-eight around the two ridges throughout the day and stop for a drink at the babbling brook. Now I was excited—you know what I'm talking about! We sat there for hours in the dark. Deer were all around us, snorting, stomping, whistling—WOW—did I have buck fever! When the sun finally crested the horizon and we could see, there was nothing around but a few chipmunks playing in the fallen trees. I chuckled. Then it began to rain and sleet, and it got even colder. My hands were so frozen my fingers wouldn't bend properly, but I didn't complain (that I remember), and we kept on hunting. After spotting a few does and more chipmunks, my father decided we'd head out and meet the rest of the hunting party for lunch. On our way out, we were cleaning ice off our scope covers (plastic bags and rubber bands back then), when all of a sudden—I saw two HUGE bucks running down the ridge, fighting, headed right toward us! I pulled on my father's red-and-black wool hunting coat, shouting, Daddy! Daddy—look! He looked up, saw the bucks, and told me to take aim, look for horns, and shoot. So I lifted my rifle, peered through the scope—tree limbs, fur, and finally, huge racks. I picked one of the two, aimed behind the front leg of the lead buck, and squeezed the trigger... Nothing happened. Safety was on. I tried to release it—it was frozen solid. “Shoot! Shoot!” my father pleaded. “It's frozen,” I said. To our surprise, it really was. He grabbed my rifle and tried to thaw the safety—breathing on it, rubbing it—until finally it released. He handed it back and again said, “SHOOT!” I took aim and squeezed the trigger… just a sluggish “thud” from the firing pin hitting the primer. “Eject it and put in another!” my father said. All the while, he had his own rifle trained on the second buck. I ejected and loaded another round. “Kerplunk.” Another misfire. Then—BA-BOOM! My father unleashed his Mauser-action .308 and dropped the five-point buck in his tracks, right in the middle of his full-speed run! Confused and disappointed by why my rifle wouldn't fire, we gathered the dud rounds and buried them deep in the ground before heading over to the downed deer. We talked all about what happened while field dressing him—and honestly, that's a whole other story on its own.
Brian & Wife Kristin
Mentor
Recently I purchased a .22 Beretta Neos for my wife for her birthday (yes—she loved it), and we began shooting together. While most women might jump at the chance to stand in line at an amusement park in 90+ degrees, she chose to head to the range with me and another member from MCSA to practice on the pistol range. After several hours of shooting and picking up brass, we came to a humorous conclusion. the contained range area is our new landlocked PA beach. I believe it went something like this—standing in the sand at the range Honey, now this is what I call a day at the beach—sand, sun, targets, and fun!” You go, Annie Oakley! She even beat us a few times in the bullseye contest! We laughed and joked about staging a photo with her, beach umbrella planted in the sand, targets in the background, pistol in hand, and a tall cold umbrella drink by her side. Now that's what we like to call living the dream.
Julia
Heading
I truly appreciate the opportunity to attend Conservation School. I learned so much over the course of the week and enjoyed every activity we did. My favorite parts were shooting and archery. We also explored vegetation, wildlife, safety, and conservation—and had plenty of hands-on experiences. We went on field trips where we learned about different animals and discovered ways to help protect them through conservation efforts. Conservation School was an incredible experience, and I'd recommend it to anyone. Please consider sponsoring more students next year so others can enjoy this opportunity just as I did. I had a lot of fun learning, trying new things, and spending time with the amazing counselors. Thank you again for giving me the chance to attend Conservation School.
Brianna
Instructor
I truly appreciate the opportunity to attend Conservation School. I learned so many interesting things, and honestly, I really enjoyed the experience. My favorite activities were shooting, learning survival and orienteering skills, and meeting new people. If I had the chance to return, I absolutely would—and I hope someday I can come back as a counselor for future sessions. I also highly recommend sponsoring another teenager so they can have the same incredible experience that I did. I believe they would truly enjoy their time at the school and learn a lot of valuable lessons—especially at our age. Thank you again for sponsoring me. I'm so grateful for everything I learned, and for the opportunity to be part of something so special. Sincerely, Brianna
Bob Buzzendore
Mentor
Art, Thanks to you, Herm, and Dave for an enjoyable class last weekend. It was clear that all of you really know your firearms. I first started shooting pistols back in 2003 and took this same class in November of that year in York County. Unfortunately, I hadn't done much shooting since then. This time around, the class was substantially better—it included targets so I could actually see my results, and that gave me more feedback and confidence. I'm looking forward to getting back out on the range and taking more classes with you. I'd gladly recommend your class to others. Thanks again,