Summer camp carries with it a particular kind of nostalgia. In memories, conditions were perfect: You were away from your parents, away from school, away from your regular ol’ friends—and hey, there was a whole new batch to bond with.
Much of that bonding takes place over shared activities, a brilliant effort by camp directors and counselors-in-training everywhere to further hone a developing person’s dependence on schedules. For some of us, “activities” meant sessions on the loom or crowded around a table making God’s eyes from rainbow yarn (it was the ‘90s and no one had thought to tell us about cultural appropriation yet).
For others, like these readers, it meant guns:
My first experience with guns was at an all-boys summer camp in 1984. I was 11 years old. It was the first time I was away from home.
We shot .22s, single-bolt action. I remember being very careful handling and carrying the rifle. Even at that age, I knew this was the real deal and not the toy guns I played Army with my friends at home.
We shot in the prone position, on our bellies. We aimed at paper bulls-eye targets about 25 yards away. The counselor taught us how to load, aim, and “fire at will.”
“Remember,” one of them said. “Exhale, then squeeze the trigger. Don’t jerk it.”
I was an OK shot. I got better with practice. I used to mail my targets home to my folks along with letters about camp. I never forgot the first time the rifle kicked back after I pulled (squeezed) the trigger. The loud pop. The smell of gunpowder. The clink of the shell casings. And the feeling that I just grew up a bit.
I went back to that camp every summer and shot those rifles until I was 17. I haven’t picked up a rifle since.
But, because of that positive experience, I’m not as quick to support gun bans as some of my more liberal friends. Target practice, marksmanship, gun safety. Under proper supervision, these are good skills—and can be fun. The NRA used to stand for that before it went nuts.
Another reader found his shooting stride even earlier:
My earliest memory was eight years old. As a kid, I was privileged to spend some glorious two-week summer stints at Camp St. Michael near Hancock, Wisconsin. The Salvatorian Brothers taught me how to swim, ride a horse, shoot an arrow with a bow, and safe, accurate, firearm handling.
.22 caliber range rifles were used, and we campers drilled and practiced the manual of arms shooting prone, seated, and standing. If you put your shot in the center of the bullseye you earned “double canteen” (soda pop and an ice cream bar) that evening. I earned a couple of NRA qualifications—pro-marksman and marksman.
I committed to memory the five cardinal rules: ALWAYS keep the muzzle pointed in a safe direction; keep the gun unloaded until ready to use; keep your finger off the trigger until ready to shoot; treat every firearm as if was loaded; and be aware of your target and what’s beyond.
Here’s one more, though this reader got his first taste of guns thanks to his brother’s camp stay:
My first experience was shooting a little .22 caliber rifle at my brother’s Scout jamboree during his summer camp family day. We lived in a rural area, and some of our neighbors hunted, though we did not. My parents were Army veterans and emphasized that guns were weapons which were intended for use in killing. No beating around the bush about “self defense” or sport.
My next experience with guns was Army basic training.
Shooting is enjoyable. I definitely see the attraction in it. I’d rather not have guns around my house, though, knowing the statistics about accidental shooting of family members.