Guns! (no big deal)

One Man's Quest to Impress...

(Pretty much straight out of North American Hunter)

In a good week, I’ll do two manly things. The trending average, though, likely hovers around half to a quarter of a manly thing per week. And oftentimes there are caveats. I bike…but I wear mandex. I shred sand dunes on four-wheeler’s…but I also wear mandex (under my pants, because the motor vibrations hurt my butt). I went to the hardware shop last week…to buy aromatic candles that shoo away mosquitoes. I call it a hardware shop instead of a hardware store – that can’t be manly.

It’s not that I don’t want to be manly – it just seems like a lot of effort. If I really enjoyed push-ups or didn’t want to keep my high-school biceps, I’d be motivated to make some changes. But I’m fine with my biceps, even if they’re the same size as when I was taking driver’s ed. Besides, both my younger brothers are both bigger than me now, so I’ve run out of people to punch.

And for some unexplainable reason, Greg at 31 retains the same level of interest in soccer, Star Trek, mustaches, wearing socks in the Summertime and dinosaurs as did his 21 year-old counterpart. And we’re pretty cool with that.

Sometimes manliness is forced upon me or there for the taking, and the outcome is what you would expect: Awesomely disastrous. Here are some examples:

• One of the last times I was on a speedboat, I thought it’d look cool to jump from the boat to the dock before the formal docking process was completed. It did look cool. Not landing the jump – what looked cool was that I was somehow able to remove my hat, grab my wallet from my pocket and stuff it inside the hat, then safely chuck it onto the dock. Seconds before my ribs hit the wood and I fell in. And my friends had to pull me out of the water.
• I’ve been to the sand dunes three times, spending hours each day thrashing sand at others at speeds of up to (probably) 50mph. Throughout all that awesomeness, I have flipped the ATV just once…not when attempting a jump or angling up a sharp incline. I turned it over in an attempt to create a “perfect circle” in the sand, going roughly the pace of unicycle.
• At a “whoot-e-nanny” shootout (I believe that’s the proper phrasing), my buddy Jaron peer-pressured me into firing his assault rifle. Because I don’t watch shows centered on firearms, of course I don’t remember the alpha-numerical denotation for the gun. You can only guess at what happened before I pulled the trigger. I turned off the safety and aimed at the target, only to slow-mo-movie watch the clip eject towards the ground, sending a few rounds in the air. Or are they shells? I know they’re one of the two. (I think I won back some man-points, however, when I positioned myself behind the free-standing door in front of the range, stuck a handgun through the glassless window and shouted “Officer Mulder” at the dirt before unloading some venom in the general vicinity of the metal targets).

In spite of these hiccups, I still make it a point to be a man every now and then. Which is why my initial reaction to Melody telling me that her dad was taking us shooting was excitement. Shortly thereafter followed by a disturbingly vivid premonition that I’d find a way to eject a clip, shoot someone I’m not supposed to, get a flat tire on the way to the farm and not hit a single clay pigeon. Or something along those lines…

(Blast from the past)

Ominously, we drove for over an hour before we came upon the rustic farmhouse that would serve as our range. Belonging to family friends, the place itself, which once housed multiple generations of family, had the beautiful and quaint appeal of a house that belongs in the type of movie that I probably didn’t appreciate as a kid (but my parents made me watch anyway).

It’s not entirely accurate to say that it feels like you’re stepping back in time, though with its collection-based decorum, the overwhelming number of family photos on the walls and a noticeable lack of technology, it feels calmer inside than anywhere I’ve been in a while. It’s the sort of place that you feel comfortable in, even if it’s your first visit. Like you’ll learn something interesting – something to prevent losing momentum during a fading bar conversation – if you put some effort reading what they’ve taken the time to hang up on the walls. 

(The barn that creepily watched us shoot)

And because the house had A/C, part of me wanted to hang out inside all afternoon, brushing up on its history. But we were there to shoot guns, and I had a reputation to forge.

First Neil, Nick and I pieced together the 10x10 canopy that was so old, there were multiple layers of labeling to help us erect it. There were numbers, colors, arrows and different kinds of tape. Yes, it took all three of us to complete the task. Sweat forced me to remove my short-sleeve cowboy shirt, a pearl-snapped plaid number which seemed cool at 8 in the morning, eschewing it for my simple white tank top, which always seems like a good idea.

(Some assembly required)

Ken provided us with the full setup. The various guns were laid out on the table, which was situated next to the grandparents, who were in lawn chairs attempting to stay ahead of the shifting sun, robbing them of shade by the hour. Under the canopy was a clay pigeon chucking machine (definitely the correct term); outside of the canopy was an orange traffic cone marking the shooting area; boxes of ammo and pigeons were kept at first on the tables, then brought to the canopy. Earplugs, glasses and a shell-bag (also the appropriate term) that provided convenient access to the rounds were dished out, as were safety instructions and on-the-fly shooting lessons.

(It was approximately 124 degrees in the shade)

Ken certainly had a captive audience – he was a real insert-famous-marksman-here. Neil and Nick seemed to know what they were doing, and since they play video games, they probably did. Still, they listened dutifully and took Ken’s every word to heart. Celia, Melody and I seemed a bit more tentative, but were reassured by Ken’s calm and obvious knowledge of the entire situation. It didn’t mean we were any more likely to hit the pigeons, though.

The dudes stepped up first and crushed it. Neil and Nick and their video-game-calloused fingers made it look easy. Melody and I went on the second go-round and proved that it was not. No goal I’ve ever scored in soccer felt better than when I lightly grazed the fourth pigeon, registering my first official “hit”. Finger quotes required. Amazingly, after we all had a crack at it, no one had come back goose-egg.

(Awesome Shooting Gallery)

Ken would calmly coach us as we stepped up: “Aim a bit lower”…”You see how you shot just to the left”…”You want to pick it up quickly, or it becomes harder to spot”. We would all nod, and though I can only speak for myself here, try our best to take what he said into consideration, seeing as every turn up was as uncertain as the first day in college…just a different class. Until the very end, I found no easy manner in which to replicate any previous shot’s success.

(Learning)

Even grandpa Butch got into the action, though he out manly-ied all of us by refusing to put in his earplugs. He was shooting back-up to us kids, though during this stint I somehow managed to absolutely obliterate three targets in a row, dead center. For those not familiar with my dry humor, I was not responsible for the kills. Butch holding a shotgun was like Emeril wielding a spatula – it just seemed right.

(Three generations of Stratman men. Can you guess which one was the theater major?)

After thoroughly embarrassing the others, then taking some awesome posed pictures, Nick and Neil had to head out. Myself, Melody, Celia and even Ken continued on, shredding some clay pigeons, dinging others, and flat-out missing a bunch. We had a blast. Grandma Alita was there to cheer us on and put cookies in our hands. That was nice.

After depleting our ammo, we called it a day. We took down the tent and table, and then started hauling the day’s supplies to the cars. The house provided a brief respite from the heat as we attempted to freshen up before heading out. It was a boiler of a day, and we spent its hottest hours under the sun, relatively stationary, firing bullets at the Sun Gods. It was no wonder my shoulders were redder than the state of Texas on a political map.

(Check out our amazing posed shots)

What was not red was the banana-crumble milkshake that Melody and I shared on our way home from the range. Oh yeah, in addition to dominating some clay pigeons, we dispossessed Chic-Fil-A of some delicious chicken sandwiches. Even if I had come up empty during the shoot, it would have been worth it to end the day at America’s favorite chicken sandwich restaurant, gobbling up not one, but two chicken sandwiches all by myself. How’s that for manly! (Added to the list).

It was a wonderful day for the family, an okay day for my self-perception of my manliness, and a great day for a good number of clay pigeons that escaped our attempted shellacking. There is no cooler feeling than cocking a shotgun, ejecting the shell and imaging that you’re on the hunt for bad guys (and/or space aliens). Because that’s what I did.

Many thanks to the Stratman fam for overseeing my safety during my latest quest to be manly. 

For more pics, check out the entire shooting album: GUNS!!!

(For you science nerds, check out the awesome pics of the cicada we found molting on the house's front steps)

To see Ken destroy five discs in a row, check out this video: