Carob Chips. Really?

Thanks everyone for taking my poll. I am heartened to see that so many of you either own guns, or hope to in the (very near?) future. For those who are planning to, I would love to help any way I can when the time comes to buy one. I was surprised to see that only one person does not plan to buy one, but I think I know who that is, and I'm not too shocked. And that's okay.

Anyway, I had some blog post ideas I've been mulling over for some time, but which I never had time to sit down and hammer out. Now that I've got a few minutes, I can't think of what they were. And I'm tired of writing boring, depressing, and otherwise frightening political stuff, and I figure many of you wouldn't want to read it right now anyway. I wish I had something funny to write about, but that well is dry right now. So I'll write about my Dad.

Let me begin by saying that if anyone has anything bad to say about my Dad, don't say it to me (same goes for my Mom, by the way). Every boy needs to respect and admire his Dad (and Mom). I think it's hard to be a mentally healthy person without that. I'm sure it's possible, but I'd rather not try.

I hope my Dad would be glad to know that I respect and admire him. We've had some tough times, especially while we both worked at the gun shop, but fortunately, I don't remember any of those times. I've been reminded of them, but really, I'm very happy that my memory has chosen not to hold on to those things.

My Dad has always been my hero. I always loved hearing his Army stories (82nd Airborne Division), especially his nail-biting, edge-of-your-seat adventure at Bango Bango. Wow! It's the stuff of which legends are made. The thing I loved most of all was his having been on the All Army Pistol Team. Each branch of the military, and each division of each branch, has its own pistol team to represent it. Dad was on the team that represented the entire Army, meaning he was one of the best in the Army. I've always wanted to be like that. Unfortunately, as much as I love guns, I've never been much of a marksman, especially with a pistol.

It was because of my handgun accuracy related shortcomings that I decided to buy an M1A rifle, which I had hoped to use to shoot Highpower Rifle with. That is a shooting discipline that requires you to shoot at targets from 200 to 600 yards away, standing (offhand), sitting or kneeling, and laying down (prone). Well, the fact that I no longer own what was once my dream gun will attest to the fact that I was not destined for greatness.

Now I've wandered into a path I never thought I would tread. A little over a year ago Carlene and I went to the range to go shooting. We met a fellow there with a target pistol who asked if I wanted to shoot it. I demurred, knowing I was a lousy shot with a handgun. But eventually I gave in to his repeated proddings, mostly because I felt my manhood was threatened by turning him down. Well, I did far better than I had expected to, and apparently well enough to impress this guy, who said I should join the club pistol team. I shouldn't have to tell you how that made me feel. Since that day I've been yearning for a target pistol of my own. About 2 months ago Carlene let my buy one (because I worked my rear off doing overtime to pay for it). It's a Ruger MkIII Target, and boy is it fun.

I've been to the range with it a few time, but with no noticeable improvement of my meager shooting skills. That's when I asked Dad (remember him? That's who I started writing this blog about) to impart to me a portion of his knowledge. That was a wise decision.

Dad and I really don't get to spend much time together, which I regret. I don't have any guy friends except for Nathan and Dad, so I don't get to do a much with other guys. It was really nice to be able to go to the range and have him teach me what he learned all those years ago. I don't really know how to put it into words, but having him there with me, coaching me and encouraging me, made me feel like the most important person on the planet. I've always revered Dad for being on the All Army Pistol Team, and here he was, showing me how to do the things that made him great. I can't really tell you what that means to me.

But I can tell you what it meant to my target. Turns out I'm not half bad (unless Dad was just humoring me). Just a couple hours of coaching shrunk my groups by an enormous amount. I may have a future in this after all. And few things could make me as proud as I would be if Dad could coach me through an official match, cheering me on to victory. Or just sitting in Carl's Jr., eating a burger, telling me I'd done a good job in practice. Thanks Dad. You've done more for me than I'm sure you realize.

And carob chips? No, not really. Obviously those had nothing to do with anything. Duh.