Gun Control?

Gun control is a hot topic in our rural area.  While I can see the point that the easy availability of guns makes them readily accessible for those who have mischief in mind, I also know that eliminating them would probably cause an uprising in my neck of the woods.  People in the rural south take their guns seriously.

There was a time when most people kept a rifle or shotgun handy for the occasional varmint that raided the hen house or chased the cows.  Today, I see a lot more  recreational shooting.  Lots of the men (and women) in our area go hunting for deer, rabbits, squirrels, and doves.  There are gun clubs popping up where enthusiasts can go to shoot at targets and show off their weaponry.  I get that.  It's fun.  It's social.

My father had two girls.  As a natural born tomboy that resisted all of my mother's efforts to civilize me until I reached my teens, I became my dad's companion for many of the "boy" activities.  I went fishing for crappie and brim when I was but a little tyke. I hiked, camped and rough-housed with the boys with delight.  When I was about 9 or 10 my dad decided I was old enough to learn to shoot.  A lot of his decision was based on the theory that it was much safer to be around guns if you knew how to handle them responsibly.  He presented me with the treasure of my childhood.  A youth sized Winchester 22 pump rifle that had belonged to him as a boy.  All of the boys in the family had learned to shoot with that little rifle and I was the youngest. 

For weeks I practiced dismantling and cleaning the little rifle. (Rule # 1-you are responsible for cleaning and caring for your own gun.)  I was allowed to dry fire as often as I wished (no bullets but learning the feel of the gun and how to aim and handle it.).  I did that until the motion of automatically putting the gun's safety on was as unconscious as breathing. (Rule # 2 - you don't move after shooting until your gun is on safety.)   Only then did he take me to the woods for target practice.  The constant refrain was safety, safety, safety. 

Surprisingly, in spite of my terrible eyesight and thick glasses, I was a good shot.  I loved the challenge of gauging the wind and movement to hit the little targets he would put out for me.  Sometimes it would be a walnut hanging high above me or a tin can set upon a post.  Bits of paper stuck on a tree or a tin can thrown into a stream became targets for our practice.  We spent many hours walking, talking and stopping to shoot in easy companionship. 

I eventually graduated to a larger single shot 22 that he had fitted with a scope to compensate for my eyesight.  I even did some skeet shooting with the boy cousins using a lightweight shotgun.  I never did hunt and never wanted to.  I didn't want to kill anything and certainly didn't want to clean it (rule #3-you dress what you kill). 

Years later I would become an extension agent and did my turn at taking kids to 4-H camp.  When the leaders were setting up the various activities and assigning adults to head them, they discovered that they didn't have anyone to teach riflery.  The men all looked at each other and realized they had other jobs that couldn't be ignored.  Hesitantly, I cleared my throat.  "Umm.  I could take that."  They looked at me in doubt.  Up until that time they had only known me in a suit, pantyhose, heels, and every hair in place in my "agent personae".  (Obviously, at camp in July I was wearing shorts and a top--but it was matching!  My mother had finally gotten her way with me!)  "I, umm, really can shoot."  I offered.

"Well," one suggested, "let's go down to the range and see what you can do."  They all trooped out to see the show.  Once there they presented me with a single shot 22 and a box of shells.  I immediately opened the breech to check it and grimaced at the grime.  "Don't you teach them how to clean their guns?" I inquired.  The leader mumbled something about some supplies being in the office.   I then loaded up and took sight on the target, shooting first from a prone, then kneeling and finishing with a standing position.  I was showing off and I knew it, but the gods were kind and I manged to hit the target.  The men watched in respectful silence as the target was reeled in.  Softly, in the background I heard one mutter, "Damn!  Give Annie Oakley the job and don't piss her off!"

Guns are only a tool to be used wisely.