thing 9: shoot a gun

i grew up in a house with guns.  both my sister and i knew where they were.  we were told never to touch them.  we listened.

my dad was an avid hunter.  the excitement of hunting season for me was not seeing a deer hanging in the neighbor’s yard (there were no hoa’s back then) or opening the freezer and seeing nondescript brown butcher-paper tied blocks of meat filling the space (and then wondering for months after exactly what kind of meat we were eating for dinner).  nope, for my sister and me, the exciting part was getting to go to mcdonald’s because that was the only time we ever got to go when we were younger.  (and, for you hunters, there is no need to point out that fresh deer meat is better to eat than anything from mcdonald’s.)

it continues to fascinate me to find out the skills my friends have learned over the years -- and how these things seem to pop up at random times.  turns out one friend started shooting at the age of six and did it competitively.  really, you don’t learn these things waiting at the school’s walker door, i tell you.  so, it was decided over drinks one night -- because all good ideas come after three beers -- to go to the shooting range. (to clarify, we decided to go later that week; not to actually go that somewhat drunken night.)

while driving to the shooting range, my friend asked me why it is that i was afraid to do one particular 44 thing we’ve been talking about (because i said i was afraid of dying and don’t have a will yet), but i wasn’t afraid to go and shoot a gun.  funny, but i hadn’t given that a thought until she mentioned it.  and, then, once that statement was out there, it just hung in the air . . . like a skunk’s noxious spray . . . following me . . .  

i didn’t know what to expect, but i found it oddly comforting that the shooting range was sort of like the driving range, just with guns.  there were individual stalls, and, as i could have guessed, there were primarily men in each.  ok, all men, with the exception of the three of us.  despite wearing ear protection, you could still hear people around you because everyone was forced to yell.  how very welcoming it was to have heard one man utter to his friend, “i want to see the women shoot.”  bet they wouldn’t have said that to sarah palin.  you betcha’ they wouldn’t.  

we settled into our stall and went over safety, including the basics from loading the gun, lining up the sights, aiming, pulling the trigger, resting the gun against the shoulder, releasing the spent bullet shell.  it continued to amaze me that i had a weapon in my hand, and i only had to turn over my driver’s license at the front desk.  my first shot was with a .22 rifle, and i have to admit, it was kind of exciting.  my heart started beating faster, and my hands got a bit sweaty, but it wasn’t what i expected.  it was very quiet -- just a little pop -- and there was little to no recoil.  low and behold, i even hit the target . . . and my target at that!  after several rounds of the .22 and getting more comfortable (and i say that word loosely because i don’t think i ever would be comfortable with any weapon), i moved on to the .38 pistol.  in my head, this was what a real gun looked like -- you know, the one the cops use.  holding it in my hand just felt real (and i realize that sounds ridiculous), but it was somewhat compact, heavy, and didn’t have a safety, which scared the daylights out of me.  let’s be honest, if you know me, the word “clumsy” is in your vocabulary.  my hands were shaking while i carefully loaded each of the five bullets in their chambers.  this was a louder, more powerful shot, and it packed a punch.  it was so out of my comfort zone that after one shot, i was done with it.  my nerves were already a tad raw courtesy of the shooter with the oh so very loud .44 next to us, but this gun just scared me - especially as i looked at the black powder left on my hands.

back to rifle shooting i went, and when of the one of the instructors came over to chat, we started talking about the .22 as opposed to the .38 -- ok, he was talking, and i was listening because there really wasn’t anything for me to contribute other than a nod here and there.  he likened it to a 16-year old learning to drive and explained that if you had keys to a mini van and keys to a porsche, which would the parent choose for their child’s lesson?  the mini van -- hence the .22.  apparently, i am a mini van in the gun world.  (subsequently, i learned that boy scouts use the .22 rifle to earn their merit badge.  i’m still in awe of it . . . boy scouts aside.)

to the gentlemen who wanted to see how the women shoot, turns out, the women are not too shabby.  i won’t be compared to annie oakley any time soon, but i don’t think i looked too out of place - well, maybe with the exception of showing up with a coral cable knit sweater tied around my neck.  i’d say the nra isn’t getting a new member any time soon, but, boy, was that not a ho-hum experience.

many thanks and much love to my friends for this 44 thing!!

on to thing 10 . . .