I shifted the safety to the "off" position and slowly pulled the antique shotgun, which had belonged to my friend's grandfather, up into my line of sight. "Pull," I said softly and squeezed the trigger, hurling the shotgun shell toward that helpless little orange disk. As it shattered, I got the nod of approval from the guys sitting behind me on the dock. I smiled inside, handed the gun back to my friend, and said, "I'm done." The gun was heavy for someone my size. I wasn't interested in having bruises from the recoil. And there were plenty of other things to entertain that day...fireworks to watch, hotdogs to roast, and bonfires to light. Ah, birthdays in the south.
Birthdays in the South
- 05 February 2013 |
- Published in Life in the South