I'd never gone before, despite the enjoyment my dad and brother get from it. They even go out to our neighbor's plot of land they use as a shooting range on a semi-regular basis, but for whatever reason (perhaps that perpetual laziness of mine, which grip I have to shake off every day to be a semi-functioning human being) I never acted on my dad's suggestion that I go with them sometime.
I was excited and, I won't lie, a wee bit nervous as we rumbled down the woodsy road and bone-dry creek bed toward the range. The last time I'd shot a gun was in our backyard with a little pistol my dad had and thought I might like to try out. It looked like a toy. It felt like a toy in my hands. If someone had painted it neon orange I would have thought it a squirt gun. But when I pulled that trigger and a sonic boom rang my ears like church bells and sent the world spiraling around me, I quickly made a leap to the opposite conclusion.
On the way there we stopped at a gun store, grabbed a nice paper target and some earplugs, and got on our way once again. I liked that place (the employees were such characters with their camo and drawls) but I didn't at the same time. The walls were lined with all kinds of taxidermy, casting their shadows on you as you walked up and down the aisles, their dying expressions erased and placed with ones of blank solemnity.
Creepy.
We pulled into the stretch of ground and started unloading the sleek weapons. It's a really pretty piece of property actually, and because they hardly do anything with it its got a really nice rustic feel with its slightly dilapidated barn and knotted rope swaying from a high tree branch. I love my own house, don't get me wrong, but the surrounding land is overrun with dead plants, spiky plants, itchy plants, and bugs. (And every time I run into one of the cobwebs, whether or not its the third one in two feet, I do a unique little dance which involves flailing wildly, smacking people in the five-foot vicinity and bellowing "Gerreroffmee!")
So after we set up the target and everything I actually got to take a shot at shooting. (...I'm so clever with puns.)
Boy, were those things loud. I hated sticking the little orange earplugs in, because sticking things in one's ear is rarely a pleasant sensation, but it was necessary for sure. It was super fun, though-- I loved the feel of the shotgun in my hands as opposed to the pistols, and strangely enough, the recoil felt GOOD against my shoulder. My dad said I'd really enjoy skeet shooting, and if I get the chance I definitely want to give it a go.
It was a bit awkward, though, because my dad's friend's son was my age and so we were together for a couple minutes while our dads shot, and he was uncanny in his impression of a lamp. Or a brick wall. Or something else that doesn't speak, because he was unbearably silent. Any attempt I gave at conversation sputtered and nosedived, because whether or not it was a yes-no question he'd give a one-word response and say nothing else.
"So what school do you go to?"
"---- school."
...
"So have you ever been shooting before?"
"No."
...
So long for now, fellers!
~Elizabeth
No comments:
Post a Comment