May. 31, 2005 - Shooting w/ The Men of the Family
You can’t outshoot a man. Truth is, you can out-dress, out-talk, and out-clean just about any fella around – but shooting? That’s another matter.
The men in my family are chauvinists. They believe that guns (along with knives, axes, swords and any other dangerous weapons) belong strictly in their domain. I wisely leave the ax handling up to them – especially in the winter when it’s time to fill the wood box – but I refuse to keep my hands off their guns. This determination, coupled with the subsequent talent I show, has wounded the pride of the male family members.
You see, I was born with pretty good shooting skills. I take my time, but when I’m ready I can hit just about anything within range. For some reason, this bothers people like my father, who actually has to practice in order to hit a target. This frustration has led to practical jokes – like handing me a defective BB-gun and announcing, “There’s no way you can hit a can when I toss it up into the air!” An afternoon at the target range can be pretty interesting when I show up.
Yesterday was just like any other in my hectic week, until about 12:00 noon. I spent the morning riding and was just about to head inside when I saw “the men” practicing with an old .22 rifle. Of course, I couldn’t ignore a chance to shoot, so I moseyed on over and asked if I could try. My request was met with disgusted glares. My father squeezed off a shot and missed. “You distracted me,” he muttered.
“Just let me shoot one time,” I said. “Please?”
“In a minute,” my father said. He aimed again and knocked a toilet paper tube off the hay bale. Satisfied, he turned to me. “Here’s the gun,” he said. “Now be careful and don’t shoot out the barn windows.”
The barn was fifty feet off to the right. “I thought I’d aim in the general direction of the target,” I said.
“Never know where it might end up with a girl shooting,” my brother said. I threw an ornery glance in his direction.
“Just because I’m a girl…” I began.
“…doesn’t mean you can’t shoot,” he finished. “I know, I know. Just like last time, when you couldn’t even hit the milk jug I held for you!”
“That gun was defective and you know it!” I argued.
“All right, all right,” my Dad interrupted. “Just take the gun and shoot.”
I flipped a strand of hair away from my eyes, lifted the gun to my shoulder and aimed the barrel at two toilet paper tubes that were sitting side by side on the hay bale in front of us. Then I squeezed off a shot and sent both tubes flying.
There was a moment of silence as we looked at each other. Then my brother slowly walked down to the target, picked up the two tubes and set them carefully back up on the hay. I grinned and handed the gun to my father.
“Here, would you reload it for me? I have some dishes to wash,” I said. Then I headed for the house, but not before I heard my father remark, “Okay, maybe she can shoot a little!” and my brother reply, “Something about that just wasn’t right!”
Later that evening, over a dinner of hot beef stew, I told my mother and two sisters about my excellent aim. After I finished the story, my brother looked at my father and they both grinned. Then my brother held up the two toilet paper tubes.
“There isn’t a single mark on either one of these,” he said. “You didn’t hit ‘em at all. Your shot hit the dirt, which bounced up and knocked the tubes off the hay. It was purely accidental that they even fell over!”
“Sorry,” my father said. “Instead of making a great shot, you actually had the worst one of the day… but that’s the way it goes when you’re shooting against the men of the family.”
He took the toilet paper tubes and tossed them into the garbage. Then he winked at my brother. “Grab your ax and we’ll go chop some wood for a while, son.”
My brother grinned. “Sure, Dad,” he said. “We gotta keep these little ladies nice and warm all winter long!”
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