Don't Go Messing with a Girl with Guns

Since there may still be some people on my beloved Friends List who may not be aware of it, let me say for the record that I am Canadian. This, among other things, means that I grew up without ever laying hands on a gun or rifle, as is still normal for the majority of Canadians. My father was in the military, my sister joined the Canadian Armed Forces Reserves one summer and our mother was taught how to fire guns by one of her many admirers during one of her many international adventures, but I never held anything more lethal than realistic toys.

I also grew up on what was known as a 'Rural Route', meaning it was a gravel road cut through a forest of towering pines. We lived on several acres near the bottom of the hill. At the top of the hill was the local Gun Club--an anomaly for certain--and every weekend we could hear the muffled clap of weapons' fire as the club members worked out their aggressions on the shooting range. It all seemed like a reckless and unpatriotic waste of time to me, and I couldn't imagine ever doing such a thing myself.

I live in Texas now, and you know where this post is going. I'm also a member of the Brazos Writers group, and one of the group's mandates is to arrange novel learning experiences for its members, on the assumption that these events will either inspire or add authenticity to what we're writing. And that's why I spent my Saturday aiming projectile weapons at targets and blowing the hell out of innocent gourds.

( The Great Pumpkin Shoot of 2009 )

Pistol Packin' Mama - My Day on the Range, Part Two

Back to Part One



I'm distressingly unphotogenic, but I am pleased to say that I hit with eight out of nine shots on the revolver. That's Art next to me. He taught all twelve of us Brazos Writers how to load, aim and shoot an 1800s Revolver, rifle and shotgun.

( Rifles are easier to aim than handguns )