Bang! Bang!

 

Bang! Bang!
  
By Arlene Levin 
(c) 2020

I never shot a gun or a rifle or even a BB gun. A city girl, I grew up in Chicago in the 1950’s. I wasn’t even curious about guns until I saw a news clip of Barack Obama shooting clay skeet. And, he looked like he was enjoying himself! “What was the attraction? What was the fascination with guns? I always saw them as instruments of “death”. I thought, “but if he enjoys this there must be something to it”.

My dad passed away at 50 from the effects of smoking, a high stress type A personality and a meat and potatoes diet. My mother remarried Paul Johnson. They met and lived in Chicago, moved to Miami and then retired to a small town in northern Arkansas. No one in my city-dwelling-family could quite understand or appreciate their decision. “Why would they move to such a small town. The sign along the highway said "Yellville population1312. What does it have to offer?”  They lived off a secondary road with a two or three hundred yard gravel driveway up to their house. My mom was happy and that’s what counted. “I have a big beautiful house, a huge vegetable garden and our dog‘n cat Mutt and Jeff!” 

In the beginning Paul, my husband, and I would drive down every year for a short visit. Christmas was a good time. The weather was much milder than Toronto and we were happy to get out of the city. The long drive got better over the years as the highways improved. But off the interstate, there was still the long and winding road to Yellville that was always a challenge to a tired driver. Our visits extended as our obligations in Toronto lessened.  Eventually we stayed most of the winter camping out in the “in-law suite” in their rambling house. For us it was a taste of cottage living. We had fun. There was lots of leisure time dotted with picnics, barbecues and trips to our local bar to hear live music.

One day I happened to be in the master bedroom. I dropped my book on the floor beside their bed. When I bent over to get it I was shocked to see a rifle under the bed. “A rifle under your bed, it’s like the movies” I blurted out when I got back downstairs. Paul J. said, a little exasperated, “Arlene, we are in the country. If there was a problem here...if there is a burglar...how long do you think it would take for the sheriff to get here? It’s not like living in the city. There are different rules. We have to protect ourselves. They might have guns too.” Needless to say, I felt a little stupid...naïve is probably a better description. Then I remembered another time Paul J. saying as a matter of fact, “No, we never lock our doors”. As transplanted city folk, it was something they were very proud of. I never questioned this but thought, “There are many things here in the country I don’t understand.”

A few days later we were in the huge “master” kitchen. The center island still had some groceries from our afternoon shop waiting to be put away. My mother stood at the sink looking out the window to the pasture where the neighbor rancher grazed his cows. She was washing lettuce from the garden for our dinner salad. Paul and Paul sat at the table reading the local papers and going over the ads. It was just a regular late afternoon gathering.

Enter my memory of Barack Obama and his skeet shooting. “Well if it’s easy” I said “I’d like to shoot a gun”. Stunned all eyes turned to me. Unflappable, Paul J. said with a smile and a little good natured sarcasm, “Arlene you never cease to surprise me...you hippy, peacenik, civil rights agitating lefty!” We all laughed. “It’s late now but tomorrow I’ll set up some cans and we’ll see how ya do”.

After lunch the following day we all went out to the big rustic yard in back of the house. My audience stood behind me. Smart move! Paul J had already set up the cans. “Ok stand right here”. I did and he gave me the rifle. I thought “This is heavy. It’s cold. It feels lethal and intimidating in my hands.” I thought of all the people who were killed with guns. Then I thought of Obama and relaxed a bit.

I lifted the rifle up to my eye. I looked down the long barrel. I found the target. I gently pulled the trigger. I was surprised there was no “kickback” like I’d seen in the movies. I missed the can by a mile. No one said a word, silence filled the moment. I squared my shoulders ready to try again. Determined, I sighted the can and pulled the trigger. The same thing happened. I thought, “I’m really terrible at this and it’s no fun...” Thank goodness no one laughed.

Then Paul J yelled back, “What eye are you using?” “My left” I replied. “Arlene,” he yelled back “Use your right!” No one told me and I was such a newbie that I didn’t know you use your right eye to shoot a rifle! My dominant eye is my left...so that’s the one I naturally began with. “Well” I thought “Let’s try this again”. Even though it was uncomfortable, I looked down the barrel and sighted the can with my right eye. Once again I squeezed the trigger. Voila! No one, not me, not anyone there could believe I actually hit the can. More confident I triumphantly yelled out, “I wana try this again!” But the truth is that the rifle jammed and the moment passed. It wasn’t fixed before we left to return to Toronto. I never shot the rifle again. I was OK with that as I thought, “best to leave a winner and not test my beginners luck”.

Today the “Best Choice Seltzer” can proudly sits on my shelf. Recently, while cleaning up a friend saw the can and said, “Arlene ya want me to put this in recycle?” I held the can in my hand and touched the bullet hole. “No Jola” After a thoughtful pause I said, “Let me tell you the story about this can.”