Chapter Two – Waiting, Rebuilding, and the Ruger 1022 Chassis

The days after the tornado stretched into weeks with Ruger 1022 chassis, each one marked by the same rhythm: wake in the cramped truck, check with local officials for updates on federal disaster aid, and then find ways to fill the long hours of waiting.

For Buddy Anthony, the hardest part wasn’t the loss of his home but the endless uncertainty. He had been told that the governor had already filed the request for a disaster declaration, but word from Washington was slow to arrive.

Neighbors compared notes every morning, wondering when federal money would flow into their battered community. Some had children sleeping in borrowed campers. Others lived in motels two towns away, paying out of pocket. Everyone needed clarity, but the delays in aid stretched patience thin.

In that silence of waiting, Buddy began to reclaim a sense of purpose. His old friend Mark often invited him into his garage workshop, a space filled with tools, benches, and neatly organized parts. It smelled of gun oil and cedar, familiar and comforting. One afternoon, Mark set a polished Ruger 1022 chassis on the bench.

“Thought you’d want to keep your hands busy,” Mark said.

Buddy stared at the gleaming piece of engineering. The last time he’d worked on a rifle, life had been steady and predictable. Now, holding the Ruger 1022 chassis in his hands felt symbolic—it was a reminder that even broken things could be rebuilt with patience and skill.

He spent hours helping Mark adjust parts, checking the alignment, making sure every screw was tight but not overdone. The work was steadying. Precision became a form of meditation. He noticed the way his hands, once shaky from stress, steadied as he lined up the Ruger 10/22 tactical chassis with its components.

“Feels good to build something again,” Buddy admitted. “Like I’m not just waiting. I’m doing.”

Mark smiled knowingly. “That’s the thing about rebuilding rifles or homes, Buddy. It’s all the same lesson—patience, precision, and knowing that every small step counts.”

Word of their workshop projects spread through the neighborhood. Soon, other neighbors who had lost homes or vehicles began stopping by, curious about the work. They didn’t all understand the details of rifle chassis, but they understood the symbolism. Watching Buddy and Mark assemble a Ruger 10/22 tactical stock became a metaphor for the community itself—damaged but not destroyed, broken yet capable of being rebuilt stronger.

In the evenings, Buddy would return to his truck-home with sore hands and a quiet sense of satisfaction. He wasn’t just waiting anymore; he was participating in a ritual of precision and patience. The more he worked on the builds, the more he believed that his life, too, could be pieced back together.

The federal aid hadn’t yet arrived, but something else had: a renewed determination. Buddy realized he didn’t need Washington’s approval to begin the work of healing. He could start now, one bolt, one piece, one carefully measured step at a time.

For the first time since the tornado, the night felt a little less heavy. And when Buddy looked out the windshield of his truck, he didn’t just see nothing anymore—he saw the beginning of something new.