Monday, March 3, 2008

Re-entry day

Yesterday was 65 degrees on your Fahrenheit dial here in West-of-Ohio. It was awesome! After church, Handyman and I worked out where the riding ring is going to go. Yea! Can't wait! Then #2 brought us lemonade and we soaked up the vitamin D, while John the rooster hung out in the garden bed and #3 swang (is that a word?) on the tire swing. It was glorious.

Then Handyman decided that we should shoot our guns. Now, we do own guns. We (he) shoot(s) starlings with them, and the occasional oppossum, times 4. (That's a story for another day.) My dad bought me a 410 shotgun, to protect myself from all the serial criminals that my mom is sure are going to come here; and we have a 16 gauge, (which is bigger for all you novices, like me).
Handyman decided that the 410 needed cleaning so we should shoot the other one. I decided that since the sun was out and #2 passed her Hunters Ed course, that I was feeling brave and tough, so I could shoot it. Even though it felt pretty heavy, carrying it to the backyard. Still, I have jumped jumps on big, scarey horses; I have stuck my hand into fighting dogs; I have picked boogers out of other people's noses; what could be harder? We had our hearing protection (well two of us did, the other one used fingers); we had our vision protection (well one of us did, the other ones blinked). We were armed and protected.

So he shot first. Bang! That was short and over problem. He told me not to bend my face over to the gun, but lift the gun up against my cheek and point it at the target. Whammo! I'm surprised I was still holding it when it was done. I think I said something like "Ow! I'm never doing that again," and handed it off pretty fast. I was mostly thankful that I didn't slam it into my cheekbone or something. Thinking back on it now, it seems like nothing, but at the time I was pretty slick.

My dad had told me he was buying me the 410 so I didn't get knocked on my butt. I love my dad; I trust my dad. He watches out for me and my mom. When Handyman brought out that bigger gun, I asked him if it was going to knock me down and he said, "No," in a tone that implied, of course not. I love my husband; I trust my husband; but my husband is pretty sure I can do just about anything he can do, which is flattering. I'm not sure he has ever said, "I don't think you can do that." It imbues great confidence to me. Once we carried a couch around to the back of our house and I was so mad at him, because it was the heaviest thing I had ever carried and I couldn't believe he could think that I could/should carry it!

So, on the one hand, I am pumped that he thinks I'm tough and on the other I'm slicked that he thinks I'm tough! and not delicate. Soooooo, he cleans the 410 and brings it out and we have another go 'round. By this time, I'm thinking it wasn't THAT big of a deal. And, after all, I want to be able to chase off a coyote if it goes after my little princess Tashetta.

Sooooo, again, he shoots. I get all ready, turn off the safety and chicken out. It's the anticipation of being whammed again. I say, "I don't want to do this," and take the gun down, but then for some reason, I don't want to be a weenie, I guess, I shoulder the gun again, flip the switch and pull the trigger.

And dag-gone-it if that thing isn't just about as bad as the first one! Dang it! It's like being kicked by a pony. Now, why on God's green earth would I sign up to do that, on purpose?? That's about the dumbest thing ever. That's why I married a big guy. He's supposed to do that painful stuff. I think I said ouch again, and was just mad as I handed it off again. I knew it was going to be not fun and I was mad. Why would anyone want to do that again...and thank you Lord, that I was not born a pioneer.

I did ask, before I shot, if I should go in the house and get my gel saddle pad to put over my shoulder and that certainly would have been a worthwhile trip.

As we were all walking away, I pointed out to Handyman that he should think about my size in proportion to his. Mine being not quite half his, but significantly, SIGNIFICANTLY less than his and that how a gun feels on his shoulder could be SIGNIFICANTLY different than how it would feel on mine. Of course, he felt bad. He wouldn't want me to be hurt.

Then, I tried to get over being mad, pretty fast, since it was sunny out. Then I came around the corner and there was my poor little princess Tashetta, on a rope in the front (since she is a hunter unless there's a tennis ball in action), and she was way over the whole gun thing. She was shivering and wiggling and hiding behind a little potted plant. So, I got over being mad right then and tried to explain to her that it was no big deal.

Well, no big deal for big, burly, tough guys. Some of us are delicate, like an orchid blossom.

Hee hee...

1 comment:

Between the Trees said...

Though I've finally come around and decided it's a good thing my husband has guns, I'm still scared to even touch them. He wants me to learn, and I suppose I will, but they creep me out. Too much false doctrine! :) heehee

I will say though, that I experienced a similar horrifically painful situation when my dad tried to teach me to play golf. I swung with all my might and hit the ground and about dislocated my shoulder. I never swung a club again! Poor me. :)