So today, my boys and I were at the range with their little .22 Marlin bolt action, ancient wood stock rifle with iron sights.
Not sure what I was thinking, because I generally prefer to bring only a couple of them along with me at a time, or enlist the aid of another adult, but there I was: me and five little boys. One gun. Plenty of ear muffs. Forgot the hats, dangit.
Everyone whined about the glasses (griping about the glasses is a tradition -- as is jamming them into the range bag at the end of the session rather than putting them back neatly into their boxes so they won't get scratched. Not that any of the kids has yet figured out the correlation between being careless with the glasses, and being annoyed by the scratches on the glasses. But I digress.)
We had The Plinker with us, a nifty little resetting steel target. My oldest had also brought along a film canister and a golf ball, and the second oldest wanted to shoot at paper. Okay, all set up. Our usual deal is that each kid gets to run through one magazine before passing the rifle to the next kid. Yeah, slow and tedious -- did I mention I like to take only a couple to the range at a time? -- but also kind of cool because they're pretty good about encouraging each other as they shoot.
Youngest up first. Age 8. Timothy is my irrepresible child. The Plinker was set at 25 yards, a respectable distance for a 2" target and iron sights for a kid that age. He hit three out of five dingers in seven shots -- good job. You should've seen the grin!
Nine year old Jonathan and ten year old David took their turns, did respectably well.
Jeremy, age 12, just joined the Civil Air Patrol this past fall. He'll be going to a Basic Marksmanship Encampment next month which he's very excited about. Apparently there's a qualifier at the end of BME? Anyway, his goal is to get all his shots into a quarter-size group at 50 feet. For various reasons, I ended up setting him up with some little orange stickers (approx 1" across) at 60 feet or so. He got one into the sticker, and six clustered closely just below it.
Ben, age 14, was the one who brought the golf ball. He balanced it on top of the film canister at 25 yards or so, and hit it first shot. The ball bounced about 10 feet further back, and he hit it a second time, knocking it ... oh, I dunno, "a long way" down range. Took him three shots to hit the ball again, but he got it.
Started back over with the littlest guy, on down the line. Got back up to Ben, and he said, "Mom, you got a penny in your pocket?"
I said, "Ummm, I don't think so... yeah, I do, two of them. Why?"
He said, "I've always wanted to have a penny with a bullet hole through the middle of it."
Okay! Off we went to the target stand, 25 yards downrange. Thick cardboard backing. I took some range tape and taped the pennies to the backing, then put an bright orange sticker centered over each penny. There you have it... go ahead, son.
He missed. Seven shots he missed, widely of the mark. (He's a better shot than that... what's the deal?) Looked at me, phony smile. "Can you do it, mom?"
Ahhhh, it becomes a little clearer now. Scamp.
"Sure, kiddo." I picked up the rifle. (I am not a rifle shooter. This little gun is a great plinker, but a target rifle it is not.) Took a deep breath. Aimed. Squeeze... oh, yes, right, safety off. Just checking. Squeezed. The orange dot vanished. Woo hoo!
But where'd it go?
I safed the weapon and we wandered downrange. "Where's the penny?"
We looked, we really did. (Did you know the blackberry bushes are up?) But ... ah well ... there's one more penny we can shoot. Surely it won't disappear on us.
Ben looked at me, back on the firing line, as I loaded another magazine. "You want to do it, Ben?" He just shook his head. Right ... of course I can repeat that shot, no problem. Right?
Three shots later, the second orange dot vanished.
Downrange we tramp.
No penny.
Drats!
Of course, it's not just no penny. It's ... it's no cool totem the kid can stick in his pocket or wear around his neck to remind him of a day at the range. And it's no proof that I can so, too, hit the center of a penny out at 25 yards. Ah, well.
We had fun, anyhow.
pax
Not sure what I was thinking, because I generally prefer to bring only a couple of them along with me at a time, or enlist the aid of another adult, but there I was: me and five little boys. One gun. Plenty of ear muffs. Forgot the hats, dangit.
Everyone whined about the glasses (griping about the glasses is a tradition -- as is jamming them into the range bag at the end of the session rather than putting them back neatly into their boxes so they won't get scratched. Not that any of the kids has yet figured out the correlation between being careless with the glasses, and being annoyed by the scratches on the glasses. But I digress.)
We had The Plinker with us, a nifty little resetting steel target. My oldest had also brought along a film canister and a golf ball, and the second oldest wanted to shoot at paper. Okay, all set up. Our usual deal is that each kid gets to run through one magazine before passing the rifle to the next kid. Yeah, slow and tedious -- did I mention I like to take only a couple to the range at a time? -- but also kind of cool because they're pretty good about encouraging each other as they shoot.
Youngest up first. Age 8. Timothy is my irrepresible child. The Plinker was set at 25 yards, a respectable distance for a 2" target and iron sights for a kid that age. He hit three out of five dingers in seven shots -- good job. You should've seen the grin!
Nine year old Jonathan and ten year old David took their turns, did respectably well.
Jeremy, age 12, just joined the Civil Air Patrol this past fall. He'll be going to a Basic Marksmanship Encampment next month which he's very excited about. Apparently there's a qualifier at the end of BME? Anyway, his goal is to get all his shots into a quarter-size group at 50 feet. For various reasons, I ended up setting him up with some little orange stickers (approx 1" across) at 60 feet or so. He got one into the sticker, and six clustered closely just below it.
Ben, age 14, was the one who brought the golf ball. He balanced it on top of the film canister at 25 yards or so, and hit it first shot. The ball bounced about 10 feet further back, and he hit it a second time, knocking it ... oh, I dunno, "a long way" down range. Took him three shots to hit the ball again, but he got it.
Started back over with the littlest guy, on down the line. Got back up to Ben, and he said, "Mom, you got a penny in your pocket?"
I said, "Ummm, I don't think so... yeah, I do, two of them. Why?"
He said, "I've always wanted to have a penny with a bullet hole through the middle of it."
Okay! Off we went to the target stand, 25 yards downrange. Thick cardboard backing. I took some range tape and taped the pennies to the backing, then put an bright orange sticker centered over each penny. There you have it... go ahead, son.
He missed. Seven shots he missed, widely of the mark. (He's a better shot than that... what's the deal?) Looked at me, phony smile. "Can you do it, mom?"
Ahhhh, it becomes a little clearer now. Scamp.
"Sure, kiddo." I picked up the rifle. (I am not a rifle shooter. This little gun is a great plinker, but a target rifle it is not.) Took a deep breath. Aimed. Squeeze... oh, yes, right, safety off. Just checking. Squeezed. The orange dot vanished. Woo hoo!
But where'd it go?
I safed the weapon and we wandered downrange. "Where's the penny?"
We looked, we really did. (Did you know the blackberry bushes are up?) But ... ah well ... there's one more penny we can shoot. Surely it won't disappear on us.
Ben looked at me, back on the firing line, as I loaded another magazine. "You want to do it, Ben?" He just shook his head. Right ... of course I can repeat that shot, no problem. Right?
Three shots later, the second orange dot vanished.
Downrange we tramp.
No penny.
Drats!
Of course, it's not just no penny. It's ... it's no cool totem the kid can stick in his pocket or wear around his neck to remind him of a day at the range. And it's no proof that I can so, too, hit the center of a penny out at 25 yards. Ah, well.
We had fun, anyhow.
pax
