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11 june 2002

kimmy, get your gun

I've been sitting here for ten minutes thinking of a way to gracefully open this one.

Here goes: I shot stuff this weekend. Like, with a rifle.

So Sunday arrives (right, shooting on the Lord's day,) and we're on our way to the shooting range outside of Raleigh. I've got some nervous belly going on, but nothing I can't deal with. Feeling a little self-conscious, a little ambivalent...and once we drive up, a little concerned about all those gun-toting fogies on the range. It turns out that the clay pigeons we're shooting are about two shades lighter than my hair, and everyone except us is wearing bifocals. I note to myself not to make any sudden moves.

"Thar's one, Hank!" Elmer Fudd: 1. Kim: 0.

Now, on one hand, I've shot rifles before and enjoyed it a great deal, but it was years ago when I worked for the Girl Scouts. And we shot stationary targets. Having grown up in a family of hunters, there's a certain something to hitting your target. Good stress reliever. Makes you feel like you did a little something when you either hit the bullseye, or dust the little booger.

Everyone unloads their equipment: belt pouches, bullets, rifles, earplugs, and enormous hearing-protection earmuffs. Not only are these things big, but one pair is electronic. Like, you can press these little buttons on the side and hear someone whispering from the other side of Durham, but not burst your eardrum when the gun goes off. I was digging the Star Trek earmuffs. Definite high point of the day. "Your turn to shoot, Kim" "Right...okay...hold on, Earl over there is talking smack on Roy's urologist."

So anyway, first we shot trap.

Trap is the easiest thing they offered, in my opinion. You take your place on the square, and get your rifle ready. Roel was extra-nice and showed me how to do this so I wouldn't injure myself. Not hurting myself involved holding the rifle tightly against my shoulder, and centering comfortably above my feet. They told me I might be a little sore and bruised (they were correct), but considering that we were out all afternoon, I felt pretty swell.

Once you're ready, you say, "pull". The microphone picks up your voice, and *whing*, out comes a pigeon from the house about 50 yards in front of you. You don't know in which direction it will fly, but I again got some good tips on that. Start with the rifle about 18 inches above the house, and then follow the pigeon until you can blow it to bits.

I hit...um...not too many. About 15-20 percent, which made me pretty darn happy. I hit stuff, so yay.

Oh, and remember all these old fellows who are there? Don't mess with Grandpa, kids. We saw Ed Bermuda Shorts and his Black Socks blow pretty much everything to pieces. Fast. Efficient. He could barely holler "pull", but you know what Ghandi said. Speak softly, then disintigrate. Or something.

Next, off to skeet.

This was more difficult. I hit a handful of these things, but I think an equal amount went by with me wondering if they were released at all. Turns out they flew along the rim of my sunglasses. That's my story and I'm sticking with it.

This is also when we encounter Brandon, Skeet Prodigy.

Yeah, this made us all feel really great about ourselves.

So Brandon is this super-nice, very bright, and obviously gifted kid. He's been shooting with his dad (who is also a gem of a guy) for about a year. And I have to stop here and say, rock on Dad. Talk about quality time. While soccer and some of these other popular activities are great for a lot of kids, it was so cool to see these two spending their afternoon together, engaging in this rather unusual pasttime.

Anyway, Brandon let's loose when it's his turn, and blows almost every single pigeon to smithereens. He hits singles from both houses (one flies from high, another from low), and a few doubles, in which two pigeons are released simultaneously. Brandon is then very polite and doesn't laugh at the rest of us. Or me, anyway. Nice kid. They should make more like him.

By the time we're finished, we're all pretty much wiped. I've already developed a souvenir bruise on the inside of my arm, and have inhaled a little too much gunpowder, but have already decided that I could totally do this again. I don't see myself getting all pro at it, but I'm sure I could become a respectable trap shooter, anyway. Make Grandpa quake in his Rockports, I will.

So then we had dinner. I'll tell you about that tomorrow. I've got to get a lesson plan together for my summer school students. The ones who, today, stated that they "don't need no better reading skills. I can just collect welfare. Check come on the first of the month. I get everything I need."

So I called the welfare office when I got home. They put together all the necessary forms for me to pick up tomorrow. I will then scour the mall for as many job applications as I can get my hands on.

Back to shooting in the dark.