The Shotgun Lesson

Summer air sticky with gasoline and gunpowder. Gravel crunching under my small feet as I held my father’s hand, trying to keep up. Motorcycles hummed nearby. A group of men—Vietnam vets, leather jackets creaking, tattoos snaking up their arms—lingered by the targets. Scary to most. Heroes to me.

We spent hours shooting pistols and rifles. Sharp cracks, burnt powder stinging my nose, laughter bouncing off metal targets. My dad crouched beside me, steadying my shoulder, giving pointers. Still, my eyes kept drifting to the shotgun.

“Dad… can I try it?”

He hesitated. “This one will put you on your ass, kid. A lot.”

“I don’t care! Please!”

Finally, a reluctant smile. “Alright. But be ready.”

I gripped it, heart hammering. Heavy. Warm. Like holding a piece of thunder.

I breathed. Aimed. Pulled the trigger.

The world flipped. Recoil slammed me backward. Gravel bit my elbows. Air knocked out. Laughter burst from me and the veterans around me. My dad shook his head, laughing, pride in his eyes. Somehow, I had hit the target perfectly.

Lesson hit harder than the gunshot:

The scariest-looking people? Teddy bears.

The nicest-looking people? Appearances can lie.

Gunpowder in my hair. Echo of laughter in my ears.

Six years old, wide-eyed, learning something I’d never forget: judgment isn’t always what it seems, and sometimes the people you fear most will protect you best.