Honey, Get Your Glock

We were headed to the Ranch. I was upstairs gathering the last of my things when I heard my husband’s voice from the bottom of the stairs. “Honey, Get Your Glock! Maybe we’ll have time for some target practice.” I went to the top of the stairs and looked down at him. “I’ll grab it right now.” I noticed our grandson Caleb, who was staying with us at the time, laughing quietly and shaking his head.

“What’s so funny?” I asked.

Caleb smiled. “It’s just that is something you would never hear in South Africa. I mean, I can’t imagine my dad yelling up to mom “Honey, get your Glock. Of course, I can’t imagine my mom owning a Glock either. It’s just so different here in Texas.”

Indeed it is, son. And that’s one of the things I like about it! What’s not to love about the challenge of mastering the sport of shooting a gun? Learning about eye dominance and how to align your eye with the gun’s sight. Figuring out which gun shoots high or low, or the best stance for a particular gun, or how the piece fits in your hands and into your shoulder. At home I can only use my Red Rider BB Gun and usually my targets are aluminum cans, a distant rock, or the occasional grackle not smart enough to fly off when he hears me cock the gun. But at the Ranch we get to use real bullets, and teach children and grandchildren the fine art of gun safety and respect for your weapon. There are also real, potentially life threatening animals against which you may need to defend yourself so there is a reason to practice.

When we returned from our Ranch Trip, I was delighted to find Caleb cleaning his own Ruger Blackhawk Elite Air Rifle. A much nicer gun that my sweet little Daisy leaning against the back porch wall. He was excited and took Grandpa outside in the back to give it a test drive.

He may have been born in South Africa, but his father and one entire side of his family are Americans from Texas. Nice to know that the genes are intact and the apple didn’t fall far from the tree.