Last week my son and I were sitting together watching the five billionth shark show during Discovery Channel’s Shark Week. Since the other channels usually join along with the shark frenzy, we were watching Chief Brody put the final rifle bullet into Jaws when a thought crossed my mind. I reminded my son that if ever we should be under shark attack that we did have a shotgun in the house. It was also very useful for alien invasions. He glanced over at me and asked if I knew how to use it. I froze where I stood. Realizing that I had no idea how to shoot the gun, I was swimming in shame. What southern girl didn’t know how to shoot a shotgun? My grandfather was a deep rooted Georgia boy and my grandmother was a farm girl from DeRidder. They would be turning in their graves if they knew their offspring had never fired a shotgun. My grandmother didn’t even go check the chickens without toting her gun out to the barn with her. And here I was....a tenderfoot.
When relaying this information to my husband, he told me not to worry, on Sunday we would head out to the shooting range and he would teach me to shoot it. For the occasion, I turned off Shark Week and switched over to Clint Eastwood.
Sunday afternoon we loaded up the car and my husband and son drove me down to the shooting range. Upon pulling into the parking lot, I immediately felt out of place. Wearing bright yellow pants and my shirt with the pink fish on it was a serious fashion mistake. If I had wished to fit in, I realized I should have opted for my blue jeans and a plaid shirt. Maybe boots.
I warily crept up to my own slot which was between a guy in the proper version of plaid and was shooting things about 1000 feet away with a sniper rifle and a scope. On my other side was a guy with something that looked like a machine gun. They both smiled and waved, but I still felt a bit uncomfortable. And they both seemed to notice my yellow pants and looked suspiciously at my sandals.
My husband patiently went over the shotgun with me and proceeded to show me how to load it and fire it. The first time I shot it, it really hurt my arm and a big purple bruise immediately showed up. It hurt really bad, but I just rubbed my shoulder and tried not let to let the sniper rifle guy see that I was a pansy.
Positioning the shotgun higher on my shoulder, I fired it again and it really hurt and kicked my shoulder. I frowned and wondered if my grandmother would have ever trusted me to watch over her chickens. Then remembering the western I had watched the night before, I put the butt of the gun under my arm and fired again.
This was much better! It didn’t hurt and I felt just like Annie Oakley. I shot it again. I shot a flower. I shot a blade of grass. I shot a spider. A few more hours of practice and I was ready to ride shotgun and be Chief Brody’s deputy.
Looking over at machine gun man, I kicked up some dirt and spit. He looked at my pink fish shirt and shook his head while giving my husband a sympathetic shrug. I let this go by, because I was too happy that I was a genuine cowgirl. Done for the day we packed up our stuff and headed home.
I told my husband I wanted to go to a rodeo. I wanted a four wheel drive with big spotlights on top and an ugly dog in the back. We needed to move the washing machine into the front yard and put the old couch on the porch. I needed to buy a Jeff Foxworthy tape. I wanted to send in my membership to the NRA. We needed some chickens.
Elated that I now was a genuine southern girl and ready for anything, I rode the rest of the way home with my head out the window and my face in the breeze. I said "Yee Haw" to pedestrians. Whether it be alien invasion or shark attack, I was finally ready. Grandma, and Charlton Heston, would be proud.
No comments:
Post a Comment