Nick is shooting his new .22 at the Issaquah Sportsmen's Club. He's a pretty good shot and he knows it. He's even reminding me about the rules, but I sat down to the rifle once and he hadn't put the safety on, so he needs to stay humble. "Red is dead," Mike told him. It's hard for a boy to be humble when he's good at something many boys aren't allowed to get near. I was glad to see that there were other boys there with their parents. Despite my concerns over Nick's age, eleven seems to be the age when the boys begin to learn how to shoot. Mike says that Boy Scouts backs that up because many of the Scout camps have rifle ranges.
I'm still a little worried about a kid his age shooting a gun, but he's excited about being totally responsible. He knows that if he stays responsible, we'll take him to the range when he wants to practice plus I'm hoping the whole thing will be less of a thrill when he's doing it more often. I also believe that knowing about something that is potentially lethal is better than being in the dark. I also hope he can learn to apply his newfound responsibility to schoolwork too. So I'm trying not to worry about his age. I'll continue to worry about his safety record as he uses the gun. He won't even have access to the gun without one of us going to the range with him.
See, I shot a rifle for the first time when I was six years old. It was for a good reason - a boy in my neighborhood accidentally shot his brother with their dad's pistol. My dad said that all of us needed to know how to shoot a gun and, more importantly, how not to shoot if we didn't intend to. At six, I learned that phrase 'red is dead' when you're looking at the safety button and that I should never put my finger on the trigger until I intend to fire. Most importantly, my dad told us that he kept the gun locked up in the house and that if we ever got it out, he'd kill us. Okay, he didn't actually say that with words, but it's the message I walked away with, the one I remember forty-six years later. When my dad sounded like that, I sat up straighter, I breathed differently, and I followed directions.
Now this story about the kid that died is complicated. Barry was his name and he was eleven. Nick loves when I tell him this story, yet I have such trouble telling it. You see, Barry was the worst kind of bully. One time, he grabbed my hair and pushed my face down into a mud puddle full of gravel and broken glass. My mother always wondered why I was so dirty at the end of the day. I wish she'd have asked me about the cuts on my face on the day that happened, but she didn't. Barry used to bother me so much that I found a way to cut through the woods and run down the property line between the Carter's and the Bryan's houses. They didn't really like it, but I'd rather have faced an angry Mrs. Carter any day than Barry.
Not long before he died, I'd had to walk past Barry's house and he was standing there in his yard yelling at me, daring me to put one toe in on his property. To draw me in, he grabbed a kitten from his little sister's arms and swung it around in circles by its tail. I can still remember the pitiful cries of that kitten. I felt like a coward as I ran away and I remember him laughing behind me. It only made me more afraid of him. There were no limits to what Barry would do.
So when my dad told me Barry had been shot and was dead, my first thought was that he was never, ever going to hurt me or anyone else again. My second thought was that it was wrong to be glad that someone was dead. It was a really complicated situation for a six-year-old girl. It was made worse by the fact that somehow my mother elected me to be the kid that went to the funeral with her. I was afraid and curious, somehow, about seeing the hole in Barry's stomach where he got shot. In my six-year-old head, it was a cartoonish hole. The real event was very different than I expected. It smelled different and all of it hit me hard, deep in my stomach as I stood staring into Barry's casket with my mother holding my hand. Tears sprang up unbidden. I really did not need to see the dead body of the boy I feared most at the age of six.
Even worse, I shouldn't have had to face his mother, who cried when she saw me, thanked me for coming to her son's funeral, and said that she was glad, finally, to see one of his friends there. Oh, the agony of that moment. I wanted to yell out that I hated Barry, that he was meaner than a snake. I clamped my teeth shut and pretended to smile at her. I couldn't afford to say a word. Do you see why it's really hard to tell this story to my boy? There is no clear moral to the story. There are no easy answers in it.
Now Nick is eleven and learning that phrase 'red is dead.' Shooting pieces of paper or chunks of clay is a simple joy for him. He even enjoyed cleaning the rifle with Mike afterward, chatting quietly about his gun and listening to Mike's show him how. But it's different for me. Oh, I like walking back during a cease-fire with a target that has a good grouping. I loved seeing the joy on Nick's face as he shot his own gun for the first time. Yet it's also about the tears of a mother, the smell of a corpse, and the understanding of what 'red is dead' can mean. See, it is really complicated, even still.
Thank you for listening, jb
I'm still a little worried about a kid his age shooting a gun, but he's excited about being totally responsible. He knows that if he stays responsible, we'll take him to the range when he wants to practice plus I'm hoping the whole thing will be less of a thrill when he's doing it more often. I also believe that knowing about something that is potentially lethal is better than being in the dark. I also hope he can learn to apply his newfound responsibility to schoolwork too. So I'm trying not to worry about his age. I'll continue to worry about his safety record as he uses the gun. He won't even have access to the gun without one of us going to the range with him.
See, I shot a rifle for the first time when I was six years old. It was for a good reason - a boy in my neighborhood accidentally shot his brother with their dad's pistol. My dad said that all of us needed to know how to shoot a gun and, more importantly, how not to shoot if we didn't intend to. At six, I learned that phrase 'red is dead' when you're looking at the safety button and that I should never put my finger on the trigger until I intend to fire. Most importantly, my dad told us that he kept the gun locked up in the house and that if we ever got it out, he'd kill us. Okay, he didn't actually say that with words, but it's the message I walked away with, the one I remember forty-six years later. When my dad sounded like that, I sat up straighter, I breathed differently, and I followed directions.
Now this story about the kid that died is complicated. Barry was his name and he was eleven. Nick loves when I tell him this story, yet I have such trouble telling it. You see, Barry was the worst kind of bully. One time, he grabbed my hair and pushed my face down into a mud puddle full of gravel and broken glass. My mother always wondered why I was so dirty at the end of the day. I wish she'd have asked me about the cuts on my face on the day that happened, but she didn't. Barry used to bother me so much that I found a way to cut through the woods and run down the property line between the Carter's and the Bryan's houses. They didn't really like it, but I'd rather have faced an angry Mrs. Carter any day than Barry.
Not long before he died, I'd had to walk past Barry's house and he was standing there in his yard yelling at me, daring me to put one toe in on his property. To draw me in, he grabbed a kitten from his little sister's arms and swung it around in circles by its tail. I can still remember the pitiful cries of that kitten. I felt like a coward as I ran away and I remember him laughing behind me. It only made me more afraid of him. There were no limits to what Barry would do.
So when my dad told me Barry had been shot and was dead, my first thought was that he was never, ever going to hurt me or anyone else again. My second thought was that it was wrong to be glad that someone was dead. It was a really complicated situation for a six-year-old girl. It was made worse by the fact that somehow my mother elected me to be the kid that went to the funeral with her. I was afraid and curious, somehow, about seeing the hole in Barry's stomach where he got shot. In my six-year-old head, it was a cartoonish hole. The real event was very different than I expected. It smelled different and all of it hit me hard, deep in my stomach as I stood staring into Barry's casket with my mother holding my hand. Tears sprang up unbidden. I really did not need to see the dead body of the boy I feared most at the age of six.
Even worse, I shouldn't have had to face his mother, who cried when she saw me, thanked me for coming to her son's funeral, and said that she was glad, finally, to see one of his friends there. Oh, the agony of that moment. I wanted to yell out that I hated Barry, that he was meaner than a snake. I clamped my teeth shut and pretended to smile at her. I couldn't afford to say a word. Do you see why it's really hard to tell this story to my boy? There is no clear moral to the story. There are no easy answers in it.
Now Nick is eleven and learning that phrase 'red is dead.' Shooting pieces of paper or chunks of clay is a simple joy for him. He even enjoyed cleaning the rifle with Mike afterward, chatting quietly about his gun and listening to Mike's show him how. But it's different for me. Oh, I like walking back during a cease-fire with a target that has a good grouping. I loved seeing the joy on Nick's face as he shot his own gun for the first time. Yet it's also about the tears of a mother, the smell of a corpse, and the understanding of what 'red is dead' can mean. See, it is really complicated, even still.
Thank you for listening, jb
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