We celebrated Labor Day with a fried chicken picnic on the back porch then we did a little family target shooting. I had purchased a box of sub sonic 22 cartridges and was anxious to see their performance. If your eyes were trained in right location they would catch a glimpse of a streaking bullet. Amazing to see a bullet in flight and the sub sonic cartridges are amazingly helpful when teaching your daughter to shoot iron sights at a fifty yard target.
This deer season we will all be shooting sabot slugs, twelve and twenty gauges. These slugs are incredible technology firing a huge projectile of lead accurately that will humanely dispatch game quickly at moderate to close distances. Carey and our youngest son Rickie will be hunting with twenty gauge slug guns. I suppose the firearms have an intimidating appearance with the black tactical stocks, fore grips and bull barrels, but it has been over four decades since the recoil of a gun entered my mind prior to squeezing the trigger. Not thinking with the perspective of a twelve year old boy with a brief exposure to real weapons I was surprised when Rickie did not want to target practice with his slug gun. The high brass shells do thump your shoulder and the sub twenty inch rifled barrel puts the startling explosion right in your face even with hearing protection. Fortunately, wisdom blindsided me and I did not make the lad shoot.
Giving his fears and my old fart fearless frame of mind more contemplation Monday evening I had an epiphany. My father had me out shadowing him instantly following diapers. Not long after becoming his shadow I started tagging along on quail hunts carrying my Daisy pop gun. I can still feel my Dad grabbing the back of my little hunting coat hoisting me up when I became hopelessly stuck in briar patches. I could not wait to hear the report of Dad’s Browning A5, because that meant dead quail Jack would retrieve and I would examine closely admiring the extraordinary beauty of the Bob White’s feathers.
My father had me out in the wilderness and around guns before I could develop unrealistic fears. John Jayne and I would watch our fathers, Jim and Bill vaporize clay pigeons shooting trap during our summer visits to see Uncle Jim and Aunt Nell. Rickie has only been in my life three years. This damn disease prevents from teaching by example, which easily shed my little boy fears in the day. At bed time I told my son, “Don’t worry about that slug gun, because one day very soon you’re going to wake up in the morning and your fears will have disappeared.” Thanks for reading. Have a great day! dj