I mentioned in the previous post about being a crack shot from a family of crack shots. Crack shot is not the same thing as a crack head, or a cracked pot, both of which mean you are pretty wacko. A crack shot is a person who can shoot accurately with a rifle or a handgun (either one or both, sometimes).
My cousin (once removed) got a nifty .22 luger pistol, and was out back in the rear pasture practicing with it when I went to discuss with him some landowner issues. He offered me the pistol and simply insisted that I try it out. I am a girl. Girls are not supposed to be able to shoot guns. That is supposed to be a “man” thing in southern Georgia culture. I flipped the coke can off the rock with the first shot, even though I had explained to him that I had never shot a handgun before, I always shot with a .22 rifle instead. He looked over at my husband and remarked with his eyebrows raised,”You better not piss HER off.”
My husband already knew that. He tried to shoot several deer in our backyard (to eat, of course) and thought the sights on the 6mm ultralight deer rifle I had were off, because he kept missing. I told him the sights were NOT off, he was just missing. Masculine dignity wounded, when the next deer appeared it the back yard, he offered me the rifle. I dropped a nice, big, fat doe. We ate well. I never heard another word about the sights on the rifle.
He also knew about women and guns from his own mother, so it should not have been much of a surprise. His mother could shoot dimes and nickels out of trees, and could shoot the erasers off of pencils. That was HER target practice. Her husband, my husband’s dad, made the mistake of calling her a very bad word when she had her rifle in her hands. She shot him in the elbow, but only because he flung his arm up over his face. She was aiming between his eyes. He did not hold a grudge, because he knew he had been bad first. It is just not too smart to call a crack shot a nasty name when they are standing there, looking at you, with their rifle in their hands. Dingbat.
My first husband took me target shooting when we were dating, and I knew instantly that this was a “test.” Was I, a mere girl, going to measure up? I sank the beer can he tossed into the lake with my first shot ever using a shotgun, which I had also explained. The .22 was my weapon of choice. He never did call me nasty names. Ever. Neither has my second husband. Ever. I think I know why.