So, Jennifer had posed the question, "how did you become a gunnie?" So, since I haven't come up with anything of note lately, I might as well answer that one.
I always had an uneducated interest in guns, but just in the same way that a kid would think of a nice toy. Kinda like how a Top Gear fan may hold a fascination with super-cars. I thought of them as something that could be fun, but always as something somewhat unobtainable. There were a few times in my youth, when living in the People's Republic of Kalifornia, that I managed to go to a range with my Mom and shoot once or twice, but I was so young, I barely remember it.
No, the real moment I made the conscious decision that I really enjoyed shooting, was much later. It was a hot summer day out in southern Utah, in which I was out of school, and had nothing to do. My (at the time) stepfather, had recently acquired a .45 automatic from my Uncle (a big-time gun hoarder) as a way to kind of keep up with the Jones'. I don't remember for the life of me what gun it actually was, but it really doesn't matter at this point (but I think it may have been a 1911). If memory serves, he was going to give it a first try, and at the same time, Mom wanted me out of the house, so off we went.
We went to the local shooting spot, and my stepfather had very little ammo, and even fewer targets. He simply had filled two 2 liter bottles with water, and sealed them together at the spout. He stepped back roughly 30-40 feet from the target, and began to take aim and fire. Being the obnoxious little 12 year old I was at the time, I had little interest in what was going on, until I had noticed his abysmal failure at hitting the target. Mag after mag, he shot at the target getting more angry and frustrated as he went. After dumping about three and a half mags at it, he gave up in a fit of rage and then noticed me beginning to giggle at him.
He then about shoved the butt of the pistol at me, and said angrily, "Well, here! Why don't you try?" So, I took hold of the pistol, he told me how to hold it, then he told me to take a shot to 'get a feel for the recoil'. I did so, and thought, "cool." He then told me to try to hit the target, if I could. I tightened my grip, took careful aim, calmed my nerves, and BLAM! Got the target nearly square in the middle on the first try! I was so pleased with myself, I immediately exlaimed, "Wow! Did you see that?"
Having his ego insulted, my stepfather immediately said "That's it, we're done!" and quickly packed everything up before I could even take another shot. I was kind of upset about not being able to shoot more, but was more proud of myself and exhilarated than anything. From that point on, I took every single opportunity to go shooting, no matter how big or small the occasion, and make a conscious effort to improve my performance.
I always had an uneducated interest in guns, but just in the same way that a kid would think of a nice toy. Kinda like how a Top Gear fan may hold a fascination with super-cars. I thought of them as something that could be fun, but always as something somewhat unobtainable. There were a few times in my youth, when living in the People's Republic of Kalifornia, that I managed to go to a range with my Mom and shoot once or twice, but I was so young, I barely remember it.
No, the real moment I made the conscious decision that I really enjoyed shooting, was much later. It was a hot summer day out in southern Utah, in which I was out of school, and had nothing to do. My (at the time) stepfather, had recently acquired a .45 automatic from my Uncle (a big-time gun hoarder) as a way to kind of keep up with the Jones'. I don't remember for the life of me what gun it actually was, but it really doesn't matter at this point (but I think it may have been a 1911). If memory serves, he was going to give it a first try, and at the same time, Mom wanted me out of the house, so off we went.
We went to the local shooting spot, and my stepfather had very little ammo, and even fewer targets. He simply had filled two 2 liter bottles with water, and sealed them together at the spout. He stepped back roughly 30-40 feet from the target, and began to take aim and fire. Being the obnoxious little 12 year old I was at the time, I had little interest in what was going on, until I had noticed his abysmal failure at hitting the target. Mag after mag, he shot at the target getting more angry and frustrated as he went. After dumping about three and a half mags at it, he gave up in a fit of rage and then noticed me beginning to giggle at him.
He then about shoved the butt of the pistol at me, and said angrily, "Well, here! Why don't you try?" So, I took hold of the pistol, he told me how to hold it, then he told me to take a shot to 'get a feel for the recoil'. I did so, and thought, "cool." He then told me to try to hit the target, if I could. I tightened my grip, took careful aim, calmed my nerves, and BLAM! Got the target nearly square in the middle on the first try! I was so pleased with myself, I immediately exlaimed, "Wow! Did you see that?"
Having his ego insulted, my stepfather immediately said "That's it, we're done!" and quickly packed everything up before I could even take another shot. I was kind of upset about not being able to shoot more, but was more proud of myself and exhilarated than anything. From that point on, I took every single opportunity to go shooting, no matter how big or small the occasion, and make a conscious effort to improve my performance.
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