Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

Regular friends of the decanter may recall that some time in the last couple months, in one of my gloomier moods about the fate of our current Civilization, I mentioned a rayther vague idea about  taking some handgun lessons, accompanied by  those of the gels who I thought could handle it, and arming Port Swiller Manor.

Connectedly, from time to time in the past few years, I have related to said gels anecdotes about my own firearms experience.  When I was a lad of six or seven, I was allowed to fire off a shotgun into a stock tank.  Round about the same time, I began shooting a .22 rifle at tin cans set up on fenceposts.  A year or two later, I was hunting deer and turkey with a Remington .222 and a few years after that, I was also bird shooting with first a 20-guage, and later both 16 and 12-guage shotguns (depending on whether we were after dove and quail or duck).   I also got to be, in my mid-teens, a passible skeet shot, albeit not as good as my brother.

Of course, I haven’t actually picked up a gun in, lessee, 23 years?  So I’m more than a bit rusty.  And I’ve never fired a handgun.

Anyhoo, most of this a la recherche du arms perdu stuff seems to have sailed right over the heads of the eldest and youngest gels.  Just as well, perhaps.  The middle one, however, remembers All.

So this evening as we were driving home, she accosted me out of the blue.

“Hey, Dad! When are we going to take that shooting course you talked about?”

Erm, what?  I dunno.  I guess I really ought to look into it and do some research.”

“Well, do it!  I want to know how to shoot before I’m 15!”  (She just turned 14.)

Yikes!

She’s right, of course.   But where to start?

A quick and dirty google search revealed to me what an idiot I am:  The NRA-Freakin’-HQ-Its-Own-Bad-Self shooting range is within 25 minutes or so of Port Swiller Manor.   As Gob Bluth would say, “C’mon!!”

(Of course, any of you friend of the decanter with other NoVA insider knowledge are welcome to submit your own suggestions.)

Either way, I suppose it’s time for ol’ Robbo to get busy.   Heck, if this does pan out, I’ve got one Christmas present locked down for sure!

 

 

 

 

 

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