Guns & Stuff

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When I was very young, probably no older than 10, my dad, brother and I went to a gun safety class that was held in the high school cafeteria. Kids and parents, mostly boys and fathers, sat at round, brightly colored tables learning about the dangers of guns, how to properly carry a gun, how to properly clean a gun, etc. I think this class was mandatory for youth to get a hunting license, and in Northern Wisconsin, everyone hunted. The week before opening weekend was like a holiday, half of the kids absent from class to go on hunting expeditions with their families. Hunting season was almost more exciting than Christmas.

I was at the gun safety class probably because I had nowhere else to be. My mother was probably working, and my father likely thought it useful for me to be exposed to a gun safety course. That way, I’d have a healthy fear of and respect for weapons, and I did.

The instructors told us stories about harrowing hunting accidents — a woman who was walking down the road wearing a white scarf. A hunter who mistook her scarf for the tail of a deer. The heartache that ensued. The instructors also taught us how to load a rifle, set the safety, clean it, et cetera. This sort of talk was less exciting: 10-year-old me was interested in blood and gore and drama and tragedy, not the inner workings of a rifle.