As long as I can remember, reloading presses stood in the basement. Two for shotgun shells and the single-stage for rifle cartridges.
Dad let me reload as soon as I was man enough to ditch the diapers. Looking back, I cannot believe he let me do the entire process. Perhaps he knew I would do exactly as he said, with or without him. Maybe weighing gunpowder bored him beyond his interest level. I trickled out every load of 4831 to the exact weight, having to take a couple of the rod-shaped (stick) granules out if the balance beam scale went over the line.
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