I started life in a smokeless world.
My dad was a shooter of the .38 and .45 revolvers and was pretty good with a 30-06.
We all used a few .22's he owned.
I was about 10 or so and found a copy of Francis Parkman's classic "The Oregon Trail" in a new branch library in the burbs where we lived.
I distinctly remember getting caught by my 6th grade teacher, Mrs. Schindler, reading the book in class.
It was about 3 inches thick.
The clear images evoked by that book got me to pestering dad for a smokepole.
I even built a toy out of emt and a 1 by 4 and made a lock (such as it was) out of heavy iron wire which held a piece of Pic (the mosquito repellent) for our neighborhood "re-enactments".
People would stop us and want to see my "gun".
Some short time after that, I found another book (which name I can't recall) about a young Confederate soldier who, at the end of the war, hid a Spencer carbine in his trousers and, stiff legged, walked away from the war.
He proceeded to head out to the West and have adventures galore.
Dad took my matchlock (Pic-lock?) to a local gun store where he was well known and this started a conversation which culminated in his buying a Lyman 1858 Remington which we shared until I got out of Uncle Sam's service.