On my thirteenth birthday, dad said “it
was time I learned how to fire a rifle. I’d soon be on my own, and it
warn’t fittin' for a feller to let someone else do his shootin’ for him.”
I told dad I wanted to stay home and play with my toys. He said I was
too old for that nonsense, and that real men don’t play with toys. They
hunt!
Early the next morning, dad woke me up, and told me to get into his car. We spent the next two hours driving through the deep woods to a hunting lodge. I wanted to go back to sleep, but dad kept on talking about manhood and poked me swiftly on the shoulder every time I nodded off. As we rolled up to the lodge, I saw a sign that said, “Welcome to Wild Jake’s Huntin’ Lodge, where real men love their rifles.”
The first person to meet us was Wild Jake himself. A rugged man, he wore a flannel shirt, blue-jean overalls and workman’s boots. He held his rifle with his right hand and shook hands with his left. I couldn’t tell which was more striking, his bushy eyebrows or his knee-length beard.
After taking a long, hard eyeball full of me Jake said, “Boy, how are you gonna get this rifle out of my hands”?
“I don’t want your gun,” I said, “You can keep it.”
“First of all,” he said, “This here ain’t no gun. It’s a rifle. Now how are you gonna take it out of my hands”?
“I guess I’ll ask for it,” I answered, “but I don’t want...”
Frustrated, Wild Jake said, “You’ll have to pry it from my cold, dead fingers”!
“That’s fine,” I said, “Live long and prosper.”
“Hold on boy,” he said, “We ain’t finished. I got to teach you some manners around this here rifle. You’re gonna pick it up in a few minutes, point it at a target and fire. Before you do that, though, you got to learn how to treat your sweetheart. Get the picture”?
“Yes, but I don’t...”
“Here,” he said, “take this rifle.”
With that, he threw his rifle at me. I think he expected me to catch it, but I let it fall to the ground. He flew into a rage and told me that any weapon I happen to be carrying is the best friend I ever had. Then he told me to kiss the rifle and apologize to it. I objected, but he insisted.
The next thing he did was show me how to load the ammunition. That wasn’t hard, but when I picked up the rifle and took aim, he said, “Gently remove your finger from the trigger, AND TURN THE RIFLE AROUND!!!!”
It went like that all day, and I never fired a round. For one reason or another, he ended up not trusting me to fire at all, and asked dad to take me home. Dad never took me back.
Early the next morning, dad woke me up, and told me to get into his car. We spent the next two hours driving through the deep woods to a hunting lodge. I wanted to go back to sleep, but dad kept on talking about manhood and poked me swiftly on the shoulder every time I nodded off. As we rolled up to the lodge, I saw a sign that said, “Welcome to Wild Jake’s Huntin’ Lodge, where real men love their rifles.”
The first person to meet us was Wild Jake himself. A rugged man, he wore a flannel shirt, blue-jean overalls and workman’s boots. He held his rifle with his right hand and shook hands with his left. I couldn’t tell which was more striking, his bushy eyebrows or his knee-length beard.
After taking a long, hard eyeball full of me Jake said, “Boy, how are you gonna get this rifle out of my hands”?
“I don’t want your gun,” I said, “You can keep it.”
“First of all,” he said, “This here ain’t no gun. It’s a rifle. Now how are you gonna take it out of my hands”?
“I guess I’ll ask for it,” I answered, “but I don’t want...”
Frustrated, Wild Jake said, “You’ll have to pry it from my cold, dead fingers”!
“That’s fine,” I said, “Live long and prosper.”
“Hold on boy,” he said, “We ain’t finished. I got to teach you some manners around this here rifle. You’re gonna pick it up in a few minutes, point it at a target and fire. Before you do that, though, you got to learn how to treat your sweetheart. Get the picture”?
“Yes, but I don’t...”
“Here,” he said, “take this rifle.”
With that, he threw his rifle at me. I think he expected me to catch it, but I let it fall to the ground. He flew into a rage and told me that any weapon I happen to be carrying is the best friend I ever had. Then he told me to kiss the rifle and apologize to it. I objected, but he insisted.
The next thing he did was show me how to load the ammunition. That wasn’t hard, but when I picked up the rifle and took aim, he said, “Gently remove your finger from the trigger, AND TURN THE RIFLE AROUND!!!!”
It went like that all day, and I never fired a round. For one reason or another, he ended up not trusting me to fire at all, and asked dad to take me home. Dad never took me back.
No comments:
Post a Comment