Throughout conversations with my mother, it had become apparent that she was interested in shooting a revolver. I think the actual words were "not one of those black things you know, but the shiny ones, the ones that spin around".
Ok, not exactly my area of expertise, the spinning of firearms, but I'll see what I can do. (Yeehaw!)
During her visit, it was nice to sit and chat about various weapons, pros and cons, and things related. I was careful not to 'feed with a fire hose', but to limit the depth of the talks, to freely admit the limitations of my knowledge, and to introduce safety rules.
The drive to the range was great. It's a ways further out into the rural area, and our talk ranged from guns, to current events, my future work plans, and back to guns. The scenery was great, everything is still green due to the constant rains this year, and the traffic wasn't even that bad. From our talks in the car, there were a few interesting points.
ME: So mom, why the revolver, and not an auto or anything else?
MOM: Well, it just looks better to me...
Fair enough, I suppose.
MOM: Plus I don't really want to kill anybody breaking into the house...
Good, good. 'I wasn't shooting to kill, I was shooting to stop...', I can dig it.
MOM: ...I just want to scare them...
uh oh...
MOM: .... any, only if I had to, maybe shoot them...
pleasesaycentermasspleasesaycentermasspleasesaycentermass...
MOM: ... in the leg, or something.
*sigh* Big Breath... One... Two... Three... Four...... Nine...Ten.
ME: Mom?
MOM: Yes, dear?
ME: I love you, you know.
MOM: Oh, I love you too, honey.
I feel pretty confidant that I cleared up the fact that someone breaking into the house at 3 in the morning with a woman and three flea-bag, mixed-mutt, noisy, and lick crazy rat dogs, is not going to be there for a cup of sugar.
At the range, we rented a .357, got a box of .38 ammo, and were in the process of filling out some paperwork for the range when my mom asked me a question.
MOM: You know who John Wayne is, right?
Did my house look like a big rock over a hollowed out area?
ME: No mom, who's that?
SALES GUY: *No words, but the look on his face was incredulous re the question and answer*
Apparently, I still got my poker face.
MOM: Well he's this actor, right...
SALES GUY: Uh, excuse me. Sir, you uh..
ME: I know who he is.
SALES GUY: Ok, just checking.
Definitely got the ole poker face. Good to know.
The shoot itself was great. I took my time, went over the safety rules, walked and talked through the process of clearing, loading, and shooting, and then talked her through the steps.
She is, without a doubt, a helluva shot.
I am, of course, going to take all the credit.
Towards the end of our range time she went inside to use the restroom, and I broke out some toys. I was having such a good time throughout the day that I had completely forgot about the sun. I don't really worry about it too much, as by the second week of summer I usually have a pretty dark tan, but my mother on the other hand, is somewhat more fair complected. She came out of the office, walked up to where I was clearing and storing my stuff, and that's when really noticed how red she was. Whoops. A little forget me not, if you will.
Ok, not exactly my area of expertise, the spinning of firearms, but I'll see what I can do. (Yeehaw!)
During her visit, it was nice to sit and chat about various weapons, pros and cons, and things related. I was careful not to 'feed with a fire hose', but to limit the depth of the talks, to freely admit the limitations of my knowledge, and to introduce safety rules.
The drive to the range was great. It's a ways further out into the rural area, and our talk ranged from guns, to current events, my future work plans, and back to guns. The scenery was great, everything is still green due to the constant rains this year, and the traffic wasn't even that bad. From our talks in the car, there were a few interesting points.
ME: So mom, why the revolver, and not an auto or anything else?
MOM: Well, it just looks better to me...
Fair enough, I suppose.
MOM: Plus I don't really want to kill anybody breaking into the house...
Good, good. 'I wasn't shooting to kill, I was shooting to stop...', I can dig it.
MOM: ...I just want to scare them...
uh oh...
MOM: .... any, only if I had to, maybe shoot them...
pleasesaycentermasspleasesaycentermasspleasesaycentermass...
MOM: ... in the leg, or something.
*sigh* Big Breath... One... Two... Three... Four...... Nine...Ten.
ME: Mom?
MOM: Yes, dear?
ME: I love you, you know.
MOM: Oh, I love you too, honey.
I feel pretty confidant that I cleared up the fact that someone breaking into the house at 3 in the morning with a woman and three flea-bag, mixed-mutt, noisy, and lick crazy rat dogs, is not going to be there for a cup of sugar.
At the range, we rented a .357, got a box of .38 ammo, and were in the process of filling out some paperwork for the range when my mom asked me a question.
MOM: You know who John Wayne is, right?
Did my house look like a big rock over a hollowed out area?
ME: No mom, who's that?
SALES GUY: *No words, but the look on his face was incredulous re the question and answer*
Apparently, I still got my poker face.
MOM: Well he's this actor, right...
SALES GUY: Uh, excuse me. Sir, you uh..
ME: I know who he is.
SALES GUY: Ok, just checking.
Definitely got the ole poker face. Good to know.
The shoot itself was great. I took my time, went over the safety rules, walked and talked through the process of clearing, loading, and shooting, and then talked her through the steps.
She is, without a doubt, a helluva shot.
I am, of course, going to take all the credit.
Towards the end of our range time she went inside to use the restroom, and I broke out some toys. I was having such a good time throughout the day that I had completely forgot about the sun. I don't really worry about it too much, as by the second week of summer I usually have a pretty dark tan, but my mother on the other hand, is somewhat more fair complected. She came out of the office, walked up to where I was clearing and storing my stuff, and that's when really noticed how red she was. Whoops. A little forget me not, if you will.
1 comment:
Poor Murphy's mom... give her my sympathy!
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