Shooting and being shot

Prologue

Summer 1972

That mysterious shiny dark blue Colt .45 sat on the top shelf in the closet, wrapped in a well-oiled gray cloth, and stuffed into a hand tooled leather western-style holster.  He could barely see the edge of the holster just hanging off of the shelf, wedged in-between the stacked shoeboxes and the well-used carry-on suitcase.  Until now it had been unreachable.

He discovered that if he dragged his mother’s vanity seat the ten feet into the closet, climbed up and stood on his tippy-toes, his fingers could just catch the edge of the leather and pull the pistol into his hands.  Finally.  He climbed back down and stood in the dark of the closet with an overwhelming feeling of awe and curiosity.  He had gotten the prize.  He pulled the cloth-wrapped pistol out of the holster and set the holster on the seat.  Then he unwrapped the shiny, beautiful pistol and just stared.  He had seen his father do this so many times.  If you grab the top and pull back, it will break loose and slide on a heavy spring.  It was a hard pull but he managed to pull it back.  As the port opened up he could see a shiny brass bullet sitting on top of the stacked magazine.  Not knowing what to do, he let go, and with a jolt the slide shot forward and the bullet was gone.  Fear immediately pounded in his throat.  Did that bullet go into the barrel?   As he looked at the rear of the gun he could tell that the hammer was sitting in the cocked position.  He knew enough to quickly figure out that this gun was loaded and ready to fire.  He had never fired a gun before and the red flag of danger replaced the awe and curiosity.  He also knew that his father would notice the hammer in a different position and he would be the first blamed, and with that blame would come several licks with a well aimed belt.

Carefully holding the pistol he slipped out the sliding-glass door and into the fenced in backyard.  He understood the danger he was in. Getting down low, he pointed the pistol into the grass, pinched the hammer between his thumb and pointer finger, held tight and pulled the trigger.  Only by the mercy of God did he feel the hammer come free and he somehow found the strength to slowly let it fall.  With a rush of relief he quickly eased back into the house, wrapped the cloth around the pistol, just like it had been, and slipped it back into the holster.  He then climbed onto the vanity seat and pushed the bundle back to the shelf.   Having putting everything back where it belonged he could finally breathe a sigh of relief.  All was good.

October 1972

Alone in his bedroom the former U.S. Army M.P. steps into his closet to check his weapon. His wife was in the kitchen with the iron in one hand pressing a long-sleeve shirt. The telephone was in the crook of her neck, wedged between her shoulder and jaw.  There was gossip to share and she often found ironing was the best time to do it.  The kids were laying on the floor in front of the TV, elbows ground into the shag carpet fibers with two hands supporting each head.  The palms of each hand were on each side of their jaw with fingers going straight up towards their ears.

A deafening blast roared through house.  The iron fell to its side and the phone slowly crashed toward the floor. Before the handset could hit the ground, the M.P.’s twice widowed wife let out a shrieking scream yelling her husband’s name as she ran in terror towards the bedroom.  A barely audible “Honey I’m okay” came from the bedroom closet as the shaken former soldier stood there staring in disbelief at his service arm. The acrid gun smoke permeated the closet.  “How in the hell did that happen?”  he said to himself.  His wife stood there crying while the kids looked on not understanding the emotions of either as the smell of the smoke drifted through the room.

The 200-grain soft-point bullet had punctured the drywall, ripped through a 2X4 stud, exited the wall on the other side, and lodged into the gilded frame of the vanity mirror six feet away. The soldier had NEVER kept a round in the chamber when it was stored at home.

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The above story is true.  It happened.  I was there the entire time.

I grew up around guns but was not formerly introduced until I was about 15 or so.  Since then I’ve been shooting the balance of my 48 years.   I have shot, been shot (by #8 bird pellets), shot my best friend with an arrow, and shot my brother-in-law in the chest with a 9mm slug on a ricochet. Fortunately the ricochet ended with a whelp and not a trip to the hospital.  Why anybody would want to do anything with me, that even remotely involves launching a projectile, is a mystery.

Until yesterday I had never participated in any formal shooting training.  Fortunately my Mother had seen fit to let me attend hunter safety training when I was sixteen years old.  I learned to shoot on my own and with a fair amount of assistance from friends and relatives. I received some good advice and some not so good advice.  I’m a pretty handy shot with a rifle or a pistol and I’ve been lucky thus far.  Yet I am also paying the price for my own ignorance and stupidity.

About thirty of us were gathered under some shaded picnic tables early yesterday listening as our instructors discussed the plan for the day.  Our ages ranged from 16 to 75 years.  The lead instructor had each of us give a brief rundown of our shooting history.  As one might expect, we all had different backgrounds and levels of shooting experience.  When it was one of the ladies turn to speak, she admitted that she had never fired a gun before.  “Perfect!” the instructor said.  “You are my favorite kind of student.  We won’t have any bad habits to fix and you will learn how to do this right and safely from the

beginning.” When my turn came up I told them my name, that I had been shooting my entire life, thought I was a pretty good shot, and I probably had a lot of bad habits to fix.  I could tell right off:  I was the kind of student they feared the most.

I took home a lot of knowledge and specifics to work on.  However one of the things they told me really struck a chord.  The lead instructor said that those who have never shot before might go home and never shoot again. They may not like it or just never have another opportunity, but through the training they will have gained a lot.  They will have gained a respect for a handgun’s capability and a great understanding of safety and handling should the occasion ever present itself in the future.

That is why I had to tell the story above.  Until now it had never been told.  Only one person knew the entire story.  Me.

There have been guns in my house all of my adult life.  My kids have grown up around them.  I purposefully did not hide them.  They were usually within fairly easy reach, however ammunition rarely was.  My daughter was about seven years old when she first saw a deer shot and field dressed.  My son was barely able to hold up my twelve-gauge shotgun the first time he went dove hunting with me.  He carried a Daisy Red Ryder.  After the dove hunt I helped him hold up the shotgun as he pulverized some empty coke cans.  My kids understood from an early age how powerful and dangerous a gun can be. We talked about how they are not to be touched and so on.  I knew that my daughter never had fear of firearms, yet always carried a great respect for them.  I was also confident my son was the same way.  As I was thinking of writing this today, I decided to call him while on his trip with the Texas Aggie Wranglers to Washington D.C.  I wanted to know if he had ever had an experience like I did as described in the story above.  I told him the statute of limitations was in effect and no answer was wrong.  His answer was “No Dad.  Why would I ever have to sneak around?  You took away all of the mystery and I never had to wonder.  I got to pretty much shoot anytime I wanted anyway.”  I said, “Even to just look at them, play with them, or anything?”  He assured me  “Nope.  We also learned some things in school, and definitely in Boy Scouts, about staying away from guns without proper supervision.”  I told him that was what I had hoped to hear.  That maybe that was one of the things I had done right as a parent.  “Dad, I would say you did it right.”

Could I have done better?  Definitely. Would I do things differently If I could get a re-do on my history of the use of firearms? Absolutely.  The ringing in my ears is a ready reminder as is the loss of hearing in most of the upper frequencies of my left ear.  It makes having conversations in a noisy room extremely uncomfortable and difficult.  My advice here: Don't be stupid enough to be tough enough - protect your eyes and ears.  And as I learned in the class, take safety to the extreme every moment. Nine out of ten times you might be able to back out of the garage without checking behind you first. But the tenth time there just may be a bicycle lying there.

So if you, the reader, can take away anything from this blog, it is that you will take the time to expose yourself, your children, or your grandchildren, to some good firearms training.  Take away the mystery for young people so they won’t have to ever wonder as I did forty something years ago.  Even though you may hate them or fear them, firearms are here and always will be. Enroll in a class somewhere - you will come away with an entirely new perspective.

Be safe!