I remember the first time I held (and shot) a gun that didn’t shoot water.
I was a teenager. Fourteen? Fifteen, maybe? I was young.
My dad spent an hour one afternoon playing with his new BB gun. I found him in our backyard on a warm summer day taking shots at an empty cardboard shipping box. He was aiming at the “F” in “FRAGILE”.
I stood on our back deck and listened to the obligatory stories about how he and the neighborhood kids used to shoot birds and squirrels with BB guns when he was a teenager.
A teenager? Hmm. I was a teenager. I’d never shot a gun before.
I asked if I could try shooting it. If he used to play with a BB gun at his age, why couldn’t I?
Somewhat reluctantly, he let me try it.
“Aim for the G,” he said, “because it’s right in the middle. And be careful.”
Despite my best aim, my first shot went straight into the dirt. My second shot hit the top edge of the box and my third hit the wall of the garage. (I don’t remember my dad being too happy about that last one.)