Everyone in our family hunted when I was a kid, aunts, uncles, sisters, cousins, and all. Around mid August we all started getting twitchy knowing that target practice would be approaching soon. It didn't matter who you were, everyone got to shoot the '06's during the rotation. I started out with an M1 carbine at the ripe age of about 5 1/2, and still remember them moving it out of the way and setting the '06 down in front of me and shoving the little pillow between it and my shoulder. Yea it helped out a BUNCH.
My pop and one uncle both were great instructors, but very firm, and didn't put up with any slacking. They watched from both sides and critiqued everything. We would hide under beds and in closets trying to get out of shooting the bigger guns, cryin our rears off they would tell us, "just shoot tha thing boy, it won't kill ya." Then after you shot it, got your eyesight back from the tears and recoil, they would start in, "well ya jerked the trigger," "ya closed your eyes," "you did this, that, or the other, shoot it again." I can say this, starting out with the "cannons" as my closest cousin and I called them, might have been a bit much, but we both learned not to let the recoil bother us, and after a couple shots with them, the lesser stuff was pudding.
Shotguns were no different. Like I said we hunted. September was dove season and we worked hard up until then to get things done so we could all have time in the field. My first shotgun was a Mossberg 410 bolt action which I still have and shoot once in a while. Pop told me when I could hit doves reliably he would get me something better. Well for anyone who knows, a 410 with a full choke and 2 3/4" shells makes hitting a flying dove somewhat a precise operation. Trust me when I say I cheated quite a bit to earn my first 12 gauge. but once it was in hand, there wasn't anything with wings that stood a chance.
Handguns were more of a side attraction growing up until I got to shoot a .357 magnum for the first time. Up until then it had usually been a .38 of some sort which we used for rabbits or snakes while out working on fences and such. Man after dropping the hammer on that magnum everything changed. When I got my first 41mag, I followed right in behind it with a .357, then a 44, and then a progressive press, and so on. My pop thought I had contracted some sort of affliction. I would burn up several hundred rounds a week easily, just to come home and load them right back up again. Something about it just worked for me. He wasn't too wild about all the blast and recoil, but to me it was a hoot and I just reminded him of that ol 06' thing when I was a kid, "just shoot the thing pop, it won't hurt ya" ....much. LOL
I gotta say some of it seemed like hell at the time, and the chewing out I got time and time again seemed like it would never end sometimes. But if I could do it all over again with what I know now, I sure would be much more appreciative of it than I was then. I wished my pop and I had more years together than what we did, and I could have been able to repay a fraction of the time he spent with me back to him. I can finish with this, no matter if your pop hunted, shot, or what with you growing up, if he is still around, give him a big thanks for time he spent with you doing things. Heck even a brake job on the car or showing you how to paint the trim on the house.
You only get one pop and after they are gone it's too late to appreciate them.
Thanks again pop I really miss ya.
