The wound you are looking at above and the accompanying (what is that, exactly?) thing in the picture are battle remnants I display proudly. And yes, it is a casing.
Let me back up for a minute. For my birthday, my brother had given me a gift certificate (well, more like an IOU, actually) that promised that he would take me to a firing range. Guns are not an item that anyone in my immediate family that I know of has ever possessed. None of us owns or had at any time owned one, save my grandfather who passed away in 1995.
He used to hunt, and he'd take me, my brother, my sister, and my two cousins with him sometimes. But never altogether. When we were old enough, of course. And no, he didn't let us shoot the rifle. Right.
He would take us hunting in the Poconos in some woods that abutted the front yard of the house. Usually, we would wander these parts of the woods with him looking for stray golf balls from the 18-hole course whose holes were right next to said woods and thus near the house.
It was fun. Most of the time we'd find one if we were lucky, but sometimes we'd find handfuls if the golf gods were feeling it necessary to inflict the pain of a terrible golf game on those foursomes and threesomes playing so often, particularly during the hot summertime.
My grandfather had a hunting rifle and would often wander into the woods to think. He wasn't big on hunting to kill. It was just a way for him to blow off steam, I think. Often, he would bring old soup, soda, or beer cans and set them up on rock formations, trees, or anything else he could find to keep them elevated. He'd shoot for the fun and see how many holes he could get in one particular can, or if he got bored he'd line 'em up and see if he could knock them all down.
I know he took my dad and my uncle sometimes, too, especially before we were born. But the gun bug never bit them, and our families were always taught that guns were bad. These fearful notions of guns were only solidified when once my cousin and sister were seven years old and playing hide and seek at my great aunt's house.
Well damned if one of them didn't find her handgun, show it to the other one, and bring it into the living room where the rest of us were sitting to announce its discovery. My dad leapt up as calmly as he could and took the gun from them. Then came the safety lecture, yadda yadda yadda, and my family never had any guns. Ever.
However, after hearing its demonization in the media, from anti-NRA groups, and from any other left wing nut cases you can think of, I had a change of heart. Not about owning them, but about trying them. I thought it might be fun. I'll admit I was a little leery when my brother first gave me this birthday gift, but regardless we got around to doing it today and it was cool. And manly.
So up to Targetmaster in Chadds Ford, PA, we went. You know, even though I have lived in this area all my life, I've often wondered, as I did today yet again: Who's Chadd? Where's his Ford? I assume it's referring to the Brandywine River near the battlefields of the same name, and not the car. You hear names all your life, but no one ever explains to you what they mean.
Targetmaster was crowded. Or so it seemed. It turns out most people were parking in their parking lot as a spillover from the limited parking at the shops next door. We went inside, and it was your typical gun shop, but with a firing range attached. My brother and I grabbed our targets.
They had choices of Osama bin Laden, mother-in-law, among others, but we went for the more subtle, stereotypical ones a la Clarice Starling in "Silence of the Lambs." We certainly looked like her with the large ear muffs on.
We had glocks (17 and 19) and after we talked to the range observer, we set up the targets and began shooting. One at a time, of course. On my first shot, a casing fell out and landed on my thumb, causing the small welt that can be seen in the first picture of this entry. It was hot and I shook it off, but it left its mark.
The guns themselves were easy to use, but the recoil was more than I expected. It took me a few tries to realize that the top of the gun moves back and will hit your hand if you don't move it. It took a few times, but I learned. They were loud, too. However, it was pretty cool to unload on a target twenty five feet away. We bought six of them, but only used three. My brother was a better shot than I by far.
As I said I was a bit apprehensive, but it's easy to learn. And now I know how to load and fire a weapon. It was weird, but cool.
I think every person should at least shoot a rented gun at a range in their lifetime. As much bad press as guns get, for recreation at a range it's not that scary or intimidating. Plus, as a guy I think it's important to at least be able to say you've shot a gun before if for nothing more than a conversation piece in guys' constant quest to one-up each other.
Would I go back? Yes, but probably not too quickly. It was a much better experience than I thought and yes, I feel like a big, bad dude.
When we looked at the targets, my brother's shots were all around the heart and upper body of the mock person. Mine were mostly at the torso. Go figure.
If I were ever in that situation, and all I had was the hour session on the range I had today, I guess I would only be able to say "Don't move, or I'll shoot you in the...crotch?"
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