We shoot at the Blackhawk range where we are members. It is February in south Texas, which means everything looks dead, but at least the temperatures are nice...this Sunday morning it was around 60 and humid with a slight breeze. The mesquite and oak sleep until April, so prickly pear, yucca and groundcover weeds are the only green. By May it will be greeeeeeeen everywhere.
We begin at the distant mark of 50 yards. Since these are new rifles, we're testing and adjusting the sights, which is why we sit and prop the guns. This always feels very unsporting to me, but the hubs assures me it's the proper way to get a rifle sighted accurately. I believe him--he was an expert marksman in the Air Force.
After a while on the rifles, we move up to the 7 and 15 yard marks for handgun practice. I'm shooting light today; two different .22's and the small .9 mm. Phil is shooting the Glock 26. We vary our practice between these, the .38 snubbies, larger .9mms, a Ruger .45, and an old .357 revolver (which is AWESOME with .38's--less kick.).
Each gun is a completely different experience to shoot--even guns of the same caliber. Of course Phil would get a picture of me with the teeny pocket-size .22 instead of the target .22. But the pocket Taurus is a comfort when I have to meet a strange man at an empty rent house alone. Different subject, and I promise not to launch into gun rights in this post. Nobody wants a political rant, right?
One very interesting discovery this Sunday morning. Somehow we always end up with me shooting on the left and him on the right. That's how we sleep, so it never occurred to me to wonder about it. But this time, I'd set things up so that I was on the right. As we lined up and began our first round, it hit me--quite literally--why he had always put me on the left. He's on the right here because he switched our places during one of my potty breaks.
My husband is the ultimate quiet gentleman. When we take walks, he puts himself between me and the street. No muss, no fuss, he just does it. Well, I'd gotten so used to shooting to the left of him, that I'd forgotten: the one shooting on the right catches the spent shells from the left-hand shooter. He's never said a word...he just always put me over there, putting up with my hot brass pinging off his head and bouncing into his collar once in a while.
He claims it's not so bad for him because he's taller and catches less of it than I do. I catch a lot so this may be true, but still...it's his way to downplay discomfort so I don't fret. I was grateful to be reminded of just how lucky I am to have this man.
In large ways and small, I am so blessed.