A Surgical Intern With The Steel

Two of the Yas are what locals call "The Law". Law as in law enforcement. I've talked about buying a handgun for a long while now, but I've also wanted to do it right (ala, take classes and get a concealed carry permit). And I've been procrastinating.

We're having a gathering of the Ya this weekend, and, very unhappy with all of the CRAP swirling around their Queen lately (and the lukewarm response of local law enforcement), my loyal subjects insisted that I be properly introduced to the art of firing a gun.

It is an art. And I was terrified. Because apart from being fairly good with my brother's Red Ryder BB gun when we were kids, I've shunned firearms.

I've always been more inclined to arm bears than bear arms. You could say I was a gun virgin.

As it turns out, I am very good at it (i.e. shooting things).

Amazingly, Asheboro does not have a gun club (at least we could not find one in the phone book). Of course I'm not counting the backyards and bullet-ridden trees of a good portion of its redneck citizenry (from which I proudly descend). So we drove up to Calibers Gun Club in Greensboro. The notion was to rent some different caliber handguns and see which one suited me best. My own personal firing instructors started their Queen (now also known as "Dirty Mary") off with a .22 semi-automatic and then bumped me up to a 9 mm.

And let me reiterate that I am quite good at it. Actually, I am a surgeon with the steel.

Well, maybe a surgical intern;)

After that first recoil, I was hooked. The smell of gunpowder was invigorating. It smelled like a steam engine . . . like Pops after a day of chasing trains.

And now, I am feeling a strange, uncontrollable urge to join the NRA.