When I was about eleven I pestered my dad to take me hunting. I wanted to shoot something. I was tired of watching Hoot Gibson and the Lone Ranger have all the fun plugging bad guys on TV. It was time for me to be pumpin' some serious lead.
Dad gave me his old 410 shotgun that Thanksgiving day at my Grandpa's farm in Illinois. We had just polished off the usual four million calorie food orgy and the football game was yet to begin on TV; so I'm sure that the ol' man figured that this was a good time to shut me up. Off we went into the snow and cold of that Midwest afternoon, me with blood lust in my heart and Dad with his trusty pack of Camels that he dared not partake of around Grandma. It was your typical "win win" situation.
About thirty minutes into our safari I spied a rabbit huddled next to a fence post behind the farm's big barn. The thing was just sitting there shivering and made no attempt to flee from me as I walked directly toward it. When I was about ten feet from "Bugs" Dad inquired as to when I might be contemplating shooting the wascally wabbit. Not missing the sarcasm, Bwanna pulled the trigger. The rabbit exploded in a starburst cluster of red. All that remained as I lowered the gun was a pair of ears and some fur. I was ready to head back to the house for some football and perhaps a snack of anything not rabbit. I had made my kill...and the barnyard cats would enjoy some lovely rabbit tartar as their Thanksgiving feast.
Dad fired up another Camel. Later he told me that the rabbit "wasn't right"; he had distemper or some malady that had prevented him from stepping out of the way of my shotgun blast. That really burned me. I was already convinced in my mind that I was one dangerous hombre with a gun even though I never wanted to fire one again. A couple of weeks after the Thanksgiving adventure I put a cigarette "load" in one of Dad's Camels just to get even. He was not amused.
Ten years hence, with no rounds fired in between, the Army gave me a Sharpshooter medal for marksmanship. I'm sure that Vietnamese rabbits with distemper are relieved that I never made it to the front.
1 comment:
It's interesting that you thought about your first gun. Just this past Sunday, after over 15 years, I retrieved my first rifle (22 Remington Scormaster, with a scope) that I got when I was 12 years old. Carol had hidden it from the world (you know, guns are dangerous). I got it out and cleaned it up. It's in pretty good shape except for the scope which has a bit of rust on the tube. But, the optics are just fine. Memories of using that rifle are just wonderful. When I first was given the gun, we went out to someones ranch and actually used a bench rest and a sand bag to sight it in. Lots of rabbits, etc. came to an sudden end with the slug of 22 long rifle. But the one I miss most was my first "deer rifle". It was a Winchester. lever action, 30/30 carbine. A beauty that got away from me when my step dad passed away and his then wife took that and all my mothers tea cups.
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