Because by the time I was 12, Barry would have missed out on close to 3 years of potential hunting, and Jeff 18 months’ worth.
I just know they chalked it up to “baby brother’s special treatment”; my getting my license right when I turned 12, but their having had to wait. Of course, in truth it was because Dad was Dutch. And not only didn’t he want to have to take the class three times in three years, he wasn’t going to pay for the pleasure three times either.
Knowing that my brothers were less likely to understand the real reason, I was always careful to make sure I was the last one in line crossing the field when out quail, pheasant, or rabbit hunting.
Sure, I got fewer shots that way, but hey, my real worry was about being shot less.
I know, I know, you think I am simply being dramatic.
You all don’t believe either one of my respectable brothers would actually shoot me. Most of you may know them as Dad, or Uncle, or Grandpa. You grew up in their shadows and know them as safety conscious outdoorsmen; hunters and shooters who are constantly on guard for unsafe situations; situations in which someone might get hurt.
But, have you ever thought about the dozens of times they interceded and enforced rules that kept everyone safe, or stopped someone from doing something that unintentionally was dangerous?
More to the point, have you ever thought about how it is that they are so well versed in how someone can get hurt?
One word: Experience.
Oh, sure, you say.
Yea, Marty can probably tell a story or two about being shot by a BB gun.
And Pellet guns now and then.
And perhaps marbles, ball bearings, and rocks from a slingshot.
Maybe the odd blow dart or two.
But not real guns. No way, they would never have used real guns on their own sibling.
Well, pull up a chair young’un and let me bring you up to speed.
One night when our parents had wisely decided to flee from their ever-demanding parental responsibilities in an effort to retain some small measure of sanity, and had left the three of us home alone (a situation that Hollywood certainly can’t recreate), the following little scene played out.
The three of us were sitting around in the living room trying to watch some TV. Back then it meant a choice of one of three scratchy black and white channels on a 16” (diagonal) low fidelity tube powered TV that faded from station to station anytime a plane flew between the roof mounted antenna and the broadcast tower. Heck, birds roosting on the antenna could disrupt the picture; butterflies and house flies could effectively mute the thing. Oh, and we had to walk 5 miles to school every day, uphill, in the snow, sorry, flashed on one of Dad‘s stories there for a moment.
But seriously, limited reception TV is what passed for home entertainment back then, so, we all just took it as par for the course and hunkered in. Just might explain why we all wear glasses though.
A short time into the evening’s entertainment a question of opinion was called on what show to watch. Seems to me that two of us wanted to watch “F-Troop”, while one wanted to watch “Petty-Coat Junction”. Without even knowing the themes of the two shows, I am sure that from the titles alone you will recognize the emotional pitch of the ensuing debate.
And enough years have passed that I can’t remember who was in favor of which. Nor can I remember if the issue was settled by drawing straws or fisticuffs…although in the interest of full disclosure I can say that I don’t remember Mom stocking straws in the kitchen cabinets anywhere.
Being used to losing more often than winning, I wasn’t too disturbed by the outcome and settled down to watch Petty-Coat Junction. In truth, while neither one of those shows had much in the way of shooting (or capable acting for that matter), they both had other interesting attributes for a boy like me.
My victorious brother settled into the best TV seat in the room, my vanquished brother stomped off to brood in his room.
While there, he hatched the “perfect practical joke” retribution plan. One guaranteed to revenge himself for his lost TV watching experience. Now, while every now and then one of us boys suffered from a seismic shift in common sense, none of us was truly stupid. Selected evidence to the contrary.
Unknown to us two TV watchers, he took down his shotgun, carefully cut open a shotgun shell and removed all the pellets, then loaded up the gun.
Snickering delightedly to himself (you would be forgiven if having heard it you had come to the conclusion that “maniacally” was a better adverb) he charged back in to the living room yelling and screaming about how he was going to get even for the preceding altercation.
The gun barrel swung upward.
The “victor” was scrambling backward out of the best TV seat in the house and literally climbing the wall, backwards even.
The trigger was pulled.
There was an ear-shattering roar.
Smoke billowed.
The shot shell wad flew out of the barrel and bounced off of the “victor’s” chest.
There was a moment of silence.
Before the “practical joker” could so much as laugh or explain himself, he found himself in a titanic battle to keep his prize shotgun from being literally wrapped around his head.
So, you see, both of my brothers have experience in the potential harm that comes from careless handling of firearms.
All in all just another evening of polite discourse between my brothers and I.
And you can try to say, “but there were no pellets”, so that wasn’t really shooting a gun involved.
But I would point out that there was a gun, there was gunpowder, there was an explosion, and there was a projectile that exited the gun, flew across the room, and struck a brother.
I rest my case.
© Copyright 2016 Marty Vandermolen
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