She was 13 years old, and if she put the butt of her Remington 12 gauge autoloader on the ground, she could see over the muzzle, but not by much. Her mother told me she was preparing for a big 4H shoot this coming weekend.
He was in his 30s, limped badly on both legs, shot a camo 870 and had to sit down and rest after a round of trap.
We all met by chance at range 7 at PGC. I had planned on a couple rounds of wobble before work, but range 4 was pre-empted for makeups for one of the leagues. Just for a change, I left the Beretta claycrusher O/U at home and brought Number Six instead.
Six is a field grade 870 older than my wife of 35 years. A new LC barrel with a set of chokes makes it a versatile field gun. I don't shoot it enough these days. I had an excuse to bring it. a few boxes of reloads whose hulls were on their last trip meant I could fling them around and not have to bend over to pick them up. At an arthritic 65, that's a very good reason.
Her mother told me that this was the first time She had shot at any range other than her home range. He told me that he had suffered a spinal chord injury earlier this year and had not regained full use of his left arm. His doctors did not expect him to walk again.
He smiled, and said he was getting ready for a goose hunt.
I told her that shooting different games and places was good for steepening the learning curve and about BA/UU/R. Every day and every step was a victory and to keep on.
We shot a round of trap. No one shot well enough to hit them all, but we all shot well enough that a straight seemed possible next time.
That's a victory in itself.
On the way home, with the Jeep purring along and the Allman Brothers telling me about Stormy Mondays, I got to musing about this.
She standing on the brink of adolescence, had a victory every time a clay exploded,and many of hers did.
He, not only a victory, but physical therapy every time he lifted that Remington.
And I had a victory also. I got to do something I love once again. That may also be therapy.....
He was in his 30s, limped badly on both legs, shot a camo 870 and had to sit down and rest after a round of trap.
We all met by chance at range 7 at PGC. I had planned on a couple rounds of wobble before work, but range 4 was pre-empted for makeups for one of the leagues. Just for a change, I left the Beretta claycrusher O/U at home and brought Number Six instead.
Six is a field grade 870 older than my wife of 35 years. A new LC barrel with a set of chokes makes it a versatile field gun. I don't shoot it enough these days. I had an excuse to bring it. a few boxes of reloads whose hulls were on their last trip meant I could fling them around and not have to bend over to pick them up. At an arthritic 65, that's a very good reason.
Her mother told me that this was the first time She had shot at any range other than her home range. He told me that he had suffered a spinal chord injury earlier this year and had not regained full use of his left arm. His doctors did not expect him to walk again.
He smiled, and said he was getting ready for a goose hunt.
I told her that shooting different games and places was good for steepening the learning curve and about BA/UU/R. Every day and every step was a victory and to keep on.
We shot a round of trap. No one shot well enough to hit them all, but we all shot well enough that a straight seemed possible next time.
That's a victory in itself.
On the way home, with the Jeep purring along and the Allman Brothers telling me about Stormy Mondays, I got to musing about this.
She standing on the brink of adolescence, had a victory every time a clay exploded,and many of hers did.
He, not only a victory, but physical therapy every time he lifted that Remington.
And I had a victory also. I got to do something I love once again. That may also be therapy.....
