I never developed much facility with snowshoes; too clumsy and awkward, though I certainly read of men who could cover ground at a runner’s clip. I know for a fact, since I carefully timed it, that I could cover the same ground on my favorite hunting trails three times faster in the winter on skis than I could bashing my way through the thick summer brush.

It was the way we got around. Since downtown Forestville was built around a slender mall with its flagpole and monument to its Civil War, Spanish-American War and World War I and II dead, the snowplows would circle around, pushing up massive banks of snows on each of its ends.

My buddy Marc Welch and I, ambling about aimlessly after Sunday school, saw an odd swatch of silver in the bank and figured it was merely a clod of glinting road salt.

But no, it was a silver-plated .357 Smith and Wesson magnum, a fierce-looking weapon — a cannon for your hands. Our first instinct was to keep it a secret — obviously it had been lost and someone would want it, but how did it get lost in the first place? How could such gleaming hardware be casually tossed off into the snowbank?

We skied to our favorite place; the waterfall below the bridge over Walnut Creek. The slate ledges that towered over the pool beneath the fall were dripping with icicles like demon’s teeth in the brisk late bright morning. The revolver was loaded, and as we about 12 years old, we were not going to let that pistol stay in that state — it would be going against the nature of boys not to fire that weapon. I went first since I had the most experience with firearms, though I had never actually shot a pistol until then. Just rifles and shotguns. I knew it would have a kick with those chunky cartridges and short barrel, so we braced each other from behind, and I slowly pulled on the trigger steadily until it came as a surprise when the hammer banged the firing pin into the cartridge and sent that bullet flying 1,240 feet per second into the unsuspecting icicles.

Those icicles shattered like a cloud of glass dust. In fact the shock waves were so powerful that they took down adjacent icicles, some of them dropped like spears into the icy floor below, collapsing in on themselves as the thick ice held.

The echoes carried so much it was a wonder that a neighbor didn’t accost us immediately. At most we were 200 yards from the nearest house. We decided to turn in the weapon to Marc’s parents — his mother, coincidentally, was the school librarian and his father the custodian. We said we found it with the cylinder empty, though even the lamest detective could detect the fresh tang of saltpeter.

It was a fateful choice; the pistol had been used in a stickup at Chum’s Sunoco. It was shocking news, our little village was seemingly immune to the crime waves that rippled around Buffalo some 50 miles away.

It pierced our veil of sublime ignorance and left scars.

The proximate problem was that the penalties for firing a weapon in the commission of a burglary were much steeper and stiffer then if it was just brandished. It could have been life or death for the perpetrator. I was visited by a detective a few days later — a husky fellow probably pissed for the long trip or maybe enjoying the overtime as he was flipping through scribbled sheets on his notepad with no-nonsense demeanor of going through the motions. He seemed from what I remember as earnest and acting in good faith and expecting the same in return.

He had interviewed Marc separately so that we couldn’t collaborate on a shared version of events. But obviously it checked out — a fully loaded .357 S&W Magnum being the textbook definition of entrapment or at least an attractive nuisance that of course a couple of bumptious 12-year-olds were by nature ill-equipped to resist.

I knew whatever trouble we were in for discharging those six cartridges had passed like a scud of clouds when Marc was next visiting and mom offered us her famous grilled cheese sandwiches with tomato soup. The sandwiches were made with good Italian bread and a blend of Havarti cheese and the Amish hard cheddar, with apple slices softened up beforehand in the frying pan. The tomato soup was leftover from the jars of Roma tomatoes made into her weekly Saturday spaghetti sauce that she began preparing on Thursday. So good.

RECIPE

SANDWICHES

Thinly slice an apple, lightly fry in a cast-iron skillet with a tiny bit of oil until they just start to soften; one to two minutes.

Instead of buttering the bread slices, try evenly smearing mayonnaise on them for a more even golden crust. Assemble the sandwiches with about 3 ounces (three or four slices of about 1/8th-inch each) of cheese slices for each sandwich; you can layer with bread with cheese, then the apple slices, then top with another layer of cheese.

Grill on low- to medium-high heat for four or five minutes, then flip and grill another three minutes on the other side. You want to cheese to begin oozing out the sides.

Cut diagonally for extra flair.

TOMATO SOUP

Chop an onion into segments. Add to a Dutch oven with half a stick of butter and cook until they begin to sweat. For an extra layer of flavor, deglaze with cooking sherry or vermouth until the onions begin to take on a toasty texture. Then add a large can of tomato sauce. Not every one has access to garden-fresh produce but look for quality; it really matters with tomatoes.

Sprinkle in salt and pepper to taste. Add a cup of chicken broth (or vegetable broth for vegans) and simmer on low for 45 minutes.

Either leave in the onions or strain them out, whichever you prefer. The leftover onions will go great with pasta dishes. Use an immersion blender to bring it to a creamy consistency. Or pour in batches into a countertop blender. Serve. Dip your sandwiches in the soup and enjoy. Croutons are also a welcome addition. You can also sprinkle chopped herbs to the soup — cilantro, basil or even mint expand the flavor profile. Firing a weapon used in a robbery is optional.

Bret Bradigan is the editor and publisher of the Ojai Quarterly & Ojai Monthly in California. He also produces a weekly podcast, “Ojai: Talk of the Town.”