We Had a Blast

We Had a Blast

By Nancy Martin   

My husband fusses that he never wins anything.  I think he reached that conclusion after entering the Publisher's Clearinghouse three times---without winning so much as a wink from Ed McMahon.  A month ago, though, he attended a charity auction. (I declined to go.  To be honest? As soon as he announces there's a charity event he wants to attend, I start to worry about what the hell I'm going to wear.  I am not a size 4.  I don't fit into "cocktail attire" anymore, and the thought of putting on heels just gives me a headache.) Anyway, Jeff went stag, and while he was enjoying his Manhattan with the other men whose wives refused—er, declined to attend, the lady in charge drew his raffle number!  He was a giddily astonished winner of the grand prize. (He works like a fiend for this particular organization, so I'd say the karma was on his side.)  Anyway, the prize?

A free weekend at a very spiffy resort within driving distance of our home.  So we went.

A free, very plush room for two nights (oooh, the bathtub!) and free meals plus a free "activity."  The resort is famous for its golf courses, so I guess they assumed we'd golf.  Lemme tell you, friends, I'd rather poke myself in the eye with a hot marshmallow stick than chase a tiny ball around in the sunshine.  So when my husband gave me the list of other activities from which we could choose, I think he figured I'd pick something relaxing at the spa.

But my eye traveled down the menu of activities and hit this tasty item:

Shooting academy.

My husband was astonished that I wanted to shoot skeet.

"You're in favor of gun control!"

For me, gun control is needed for automatic weapons.  Sporting firearms are something else entirely—especially the kind that are used in controlled circumstances like gun ranges, and I'm even in favor of hunting animals. (There are too many white-tailed deer in Pennsylvania, not to mention hungry families who live in rural areas.)

Plus? Has Jeff not noticed what I've been writing for the last ten years? Of course I wanted to try a shotgun!

So we went to the gun club. It was a lovely September afternoon, and we were assigned an instructor who was very informative and safety-minded and downright sweet.  First, he gave us safety goggles and ear protection and showed me how to carry an unloaded weapon. Then he drove us in a golf cart to a stand and showed us how to shoot at incoming and outgoing "birds"—clay pigeons that are really disks of clay that break apart when hit with even a single BB—which is what's loaded into the shell that you fire from a shotgun.

My husband, who hasn't hunted in fifteen years and who gave away his rifle and shotgun before we moved here in the city, hadn't lost his skills.  He was given a 12 gauge automatic "over and under" (as opposed to the horizontally mounted "double-barreled shotgun" you see in the movies)  and he looks pretty great, right? And he managed to hit a respectable number of birds right off the bat.

My eyesight isn't great, so I figured I'd have some trouble. I was given a 28 gauge shotgun—much lighter than my husband's gun and with a shorter barrel. (It had some very pretty engraving on the stock, too, but apparently that's not what you're supposed to say about a gun.)  I put the gun to my shoulder and said, "Pull!"—the signal to launch the clay pigeon. Now, I must admit I wasn't a total rookie.  I'd shot at clay pigeons back when I was a teenager and my parents used to hang out with a group of outdoorsy friends. They spent weekends on a farm, shooting, grilling steaks, watching the kids chase kittens—that kind of thing.  But that was a long time ago. Lonnng time.

Well, dear reader, darned if I didn't hit the first six birds—bangbangbangbangbangbang—most of them obliterated.     Our instructor thought I'd been teasing him about my bad eyes.  But my accuracy was only good on the range.  When we rode the golf cart out to the stations in the woods, I was no Annie Oakley.  I even tried wearing an eyepatch, but I just couldn't discern the play pigeon from the trees and terrain.  I hit a few, but it wasn't until we tried the "rabbit range"—where the clay disks are launched sideways, hit the ground and skitter along like a frightened bunny—that I got my mojo back.  Bye, bye bunnies.

Needless to say, we had a blast. A couple of wonderful dinners, swimming at the spa, strolling around the art museum, an evening cuddled up at the firepit (s'mores!) and some quality time with the love of my life---a pretty great prize.

Do you win things?