Similar to what I’ve heard from my extended family in the Midwest, a good number of readers wrote about positive first experiences with guns, which led to a lifelong respect and passion for firearms. Our first reader:
When I was about age seven and living in semi-rural Illinois outside of Chicago, I remember my Aunt Marge inviting me to go outdoors with her and watch her fire a .22 rifle at a target hung from the apple tree. She was wearing a suede jacket, which seemed unusual to me, since she was a businesswoman and an accountant for a string of movie theaters.
I remember her giving me safety instructions, including where to stand and how to remain alert around a shooter to avoid mishaps. It was very cold and windy. And I remember, most of all, the sweet smell of gunsmoke—which I enjoyed.
Then, we went inside, and I watched her carefully unload the gun and put it away in a long, cardboard box—with the ammunition put up high in a safe place separate from the gun. She gave me repeated warnings about “not playing” with any firearms.
So my earliest memory of guns is that Aunt Marge really knew how to use them. They were dangerous but useful, and you needed to respect them and be very grown-up before you could be trusted to use one for target practice. I like guns, and I have a healthy respect for them because of early exposure to good training about their purpose and use.
Another reader:
I was four years old when I announced that I wanted a BB gun.
“What would you do with a BB gun?” Pappy asked. “They’re no good for anything but making noise. A real man uses a real gun.”
Ten minutes later, we were in the backyard near the barn. I listened
attentively as he explained how to aim the .22 rifle he had in his hand.
“And the most important rule of all,” he said, “is to NEVER, EVER point a gun at a person. Not even if it’s unloaded. Not even by accident. Guns are not toys.”
Lecture over, he set a pop can on top of a fence post, carefully measured off ten paces, then had me lie on my belly, rest the barrel of the gun on a crate, look down the sight, and squeeze the trigger. “Squeeze it, don’t pull it,” he said.
The gun cracked. The pop can flew off the fence post.
It was a triumphant introduction to guns. I don’t remember anything else about that day. The fact is, that one little window in time is one of just a handful of memories I have of Pappy. I love him still with the fierce love of a small child because a year later he was dead of a brain tumor, far too young.
Was he crazy to teach a four year old about guns? Maybe.
But years later, as my father and I taught my (considerably older than
four-year-old) daughters how to shoot safely, my mind went back to that day long ago when my grandfather made a real human connection with a four year old over a gun.
I’m struck by the theme of comfort in these emails—not in the sense that they’re learning to protect themselves, but the simple relief of feeling safe spending time with the adults they look up to. Here’s another reader, from San Diego:
My first encounter with firearms involved a few cousins, uncles, my father, and I all driving out to rural deserts in east San Diego county. I was eight years old. We pulled off the road when we found a good place to set up targets. We had old fruit, water jugs, paper targets, and other odds and ends we would all shoot.
I don’t remember much of the day, but I remember my dad’s firm stance behind me when I shot his .22 rifle for the first time, lest the kick of the gun knock me off my feet.
I remember the strangely comforting smell of gun powder, oil, and dry heat all through the afternoon. It was a good day. We stopped for Mexican food afterward, on our way home, and I knew I’d found a hobby that I’d always enjoy. I still do.
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