The first gun I owned was a single shot BB gun that my Uncle Elmer gave me. He was my Aunt Dutch’s husband. I was about eight or nine and he made me promise to be careful with it. “Don’t point it at anyone. Just shoot at targets.” He backed up his warning by pushing his tongue against his lower lip and pushing forward. A little round ball appeared. “This is a BB that one of my friends shot at me when I was about your age.”
I don’t know if his story is true, but it convinced me I should be careful. I got the gun but no ammo. Somewhere along the line I picked up a few stray BB’s. I had to roll a BB into the barrel, cock the gun by bending the mechanism in half, and then I could point and take a single shot. That was enough for me.
When I was in the boy scouts, we shot BB guns and pellet guns at targets, and I had the opportunity to shoot a shot gun at clay targets during summer camp. I never hit one.
When my dad came home from World War II, he had a duffle bag full of memorabilia he picked up in the Pacific. Someone stole the bag on his train from the west coast to Chicago. Among the “souvenirs” was a Japanese bolt action rifle. It’s the only thing that didn’t get stolen, and somewhere along the line he gave it to me. There was no ammunition, just a piece of history.
One year, he went with me to the Addison Gun Club dinner. The annual event was a fund raiser for the club. There was a wild game dinner, a raffle, an auction, and that was followed by all night poker games. He came for the dinner and the action at the poker table. He bought a single raffle ticket and won a .22 rifle. He took it home, and I never saw it again. I never knew him to own another gun.
The first year Ruth and I were married, I borrowed her dad’s shot gun and hunted pheasant and squirrels. I shot at one pheasant but by the time I pulled the trigger, she was long gone. My fellow hunters pointed out that I had shot at a hen. They all looked the same to me when they took flight.
On another afternoon, I took dead aim at a squirrel but didn’t pull the trigger. It was sitting on a stump chomping on an acorn. I knew I wasn’t going to eat it so killing it made no sense.
Later that fall, I went deer hunting with five of my fellow teachers, but the only time we saw a deer was when we shined a spotlight into a recently harvested corn field. There must have been a million of them, but they all took shelter when the six of us went hunting in the morning. They were just smarter than us.
I have several friends who are prolific hunters. Most are very selective. If the rack on the buck isn’t large enough, they don’t shoot. Others hunt to fill their freezers. When they shoot, there’s always a purpose.
A few years ago, as school shootings increased, my son, David, took shooting lessons and obtained a carry permit. He thought it best to be prepared should evil find its way to his doorstep. I never took him hunting but his father-in-law, Larry, did. When Larry passed, David inherited some of his weapons. I’ve never seen them, but I know they exist. All are locked away, but he knows how to use them if he has to. I just hope he never does.
TBC