Being the child of a former Marine has always had its advantages and disadvantages.  An advantage might be that you never doubted he knew how to take care of things – but a disadvantage might be when you are the only child – A DAUGHTER – you are still expected to do things the Marine way – the Paris Island Marine way – as if I had been expected to be, well, a son instead.

Often was the case when it came to general things like knowing how to throw and catch, ride a bike (“…..no kid of mine will have training wheels…….”  Just say ouch, already), knowing how to punch out somebody at school when they picked on you, knowing that “We don’t cry.  Just suck it up and go on,” and then later after we moved to the old house in the country, the ultimate required ability – how to shoot a gun.

Looking back, I didn’t realize at the time, but my mother was NOT at home the day my Dad decided I needed to learn to shoot – amazing how that all fell into place, huh?  I remember it was a really nice day, sunny, but not too hot.  It was in all likelihood this very same time of year as I type this post because our crab apple trees were full of apples – the very apples I was instructed to shoot at.

As were all the instruction sessions, it was an all day event.  (Clearly my mother must have had a great deal of shopping to do that day!)

But you can be rest assured that by that day’s end, I could shoot.

I could shoot well.

And I could shoot the apples off the crab apple tree.

That was a long, long time ago; I couldn’t have been more than 10 or 11 years old at the time.  I never really had a reason to shoot a gun for years and years.  But somewhere in the back of my mind, I always knew that if a situation presented itself – good or bad – I could shoot a gun if need be.

Fast forward many years…I married Alan; we had children; correction: we had sons.  Sons usually want B-B guns and need to learn gun safety and how to shoot, etc.  Due to an accident that had occurred with two of my cousins who were brothers that involved a B-B gun, an unintentional, “Bang, I got you,” and what resulted in an exploratory surgery to find the B-B bullet – I was a bit overly cautious when the time arrived for our sons to become owners of their own B-B guns.  I was, nearly – no, I guess I was obsessed with safety and precaution and constantly worrying about the boys shooting each other.

So, based on my motherly, overprotective nature with my sons and their new gun experiences, who would’ve ever suspected that I would have a clue about how to shoot a gun?

Heh – heh.  My husband.  That’s who.

After we had moved to the Dirt Road, my beloved husband – being none other than himself, decided that he needed to teach his wife how to shoot a gun.  He (carrying his .22 rifle) walked into the kitchen where I was washing dishes or something and announced that I needed to come with him to learn how to shoot the .22 rifle.  I told him I didn’t really want to, but he insisted.

So me in my bedroom shoes and my apron along with my dishpan hands, followed my beloved Gladiator outside to observe his instruction.

I stood silently while he nailed an empty tuna fish can to a tree for a target.

He walked off a mental number of steps and began explaining the parts of the gun, how to load it, the safety button, the sight apparatus and so forth and so on.

I listened quietly and gave him all my attention.

He held the gun and shot at the can.

He missed.

He adjusted the sight thingee.

He repeated the exercise.

This went on for a couple of minutes.

I finally broke my silence and asked, “Can I try?”

“Just a minute, I’m trying to adjust the sight.  I don’t want you to have any excuses when it’s your turn.”

I remained silent.

He made some more adjustments and shot, hitting the bottom of the can.

I repeated my request, “Just let me try and I’ll be done with it.”  He finally surrendered the gun for me to try.

I held the gun up, shot three rounds and hit the tuna can all three times.

I activated the safety on the gun, handed it back to my wide eyed husband and said, “Clearly you’ve forgotten, I’m the daughter of a Marine,” and walked back into the house to finish washing the dishes.

God, in His infinite wisdom, knew that despite the “toughness” of living up to Marine standards during childhood, the experiences would certainly come in handy for the road He had planned ahead with a Gladiator for a husband and raising our sons who are active outdoorsmen.

Not to mention that God has a GREAT sense of humor, too!

Harriette

(~~ waving from the Deep South ~~)

Be sure to stop by and see Darcy, who looks to be a sharp shooting Momma also!  A special thanks to her photo she shared that inspired me to share this little storied experience!  Woo Hoo!