The last time I shot a gun, I was seven years old. It was Arizona in the ’70s, so no one thought much about handing a rifle to a little girl. My dad and his buddies drove their beat-up pickup trucks down a secluded dirt road, set some spent beer cans on a rotting fence rail, and idled away the afternoon blowing them to bits.
At some point, Dad relented to my pestering, passed me a weapon, and taught me how to aim. It was a .22 rifle, what would be described as a peashooter if this were narrated by Wyatt Earp. I put the butt of the rifle against my shoulder, lined up the sights, and pulled the trigger. A can exploded. Being an overachiever, I was hooked. I wanted to try it again to make sure it wasn’t a fluke. Dad loaded the gun a few more times, and my accuracy proved to be more than beginner’s luck. Ptchew! Ptchew! Ptchew! My bullets found their marks. The silver cans went flying.
Soon after, the male collective grew bored, so we packed up our things and went home. No one wants to be outdone by a girl in pigtails.
