My neighborhood is exploding. Along with the autumn leaves and cool temperatures has come a need, evidently, to discharge tons of ammo. We live in a pretty nice subdivision, but it’s tucked into the woods out in “the county,” and there are no firearms restrictions here. Last night, my son asked disgustedly, “Why has our neighborhood suddenly turned into a firing range?” Then again, Michael can’t wait to live in a high-rise apartment in downtown Raleigh.
It’s not deer season yet; it starts November 10th. My husband thought that it was dove season, but I didn’t think our neighbors would waste this much ammo on doves. So little meat for so much work—not to mention the broken teeth from birdshot. Besides, dove season also starts (again) in November. I looked all of this up on the North Carolina Wildlife Resources Commission website. I did find some reassuring news on this well-designed website, though. Teal season ended on September 26th, so now we know that our neighbors are not shooting at us. Or else they’re just very poor marksmen.
When you look at the people doing the shooting, it just doesn’t add up. OK, my left-neighbor-but-one is a retired military officer, so I figure he’s just keeping his hand in. However, the neighbor to my right is from New Jersey, and I don’t know anyone from New Jersey who even thinks that people should be allowed to own guns. The neighbor to our immediate left is… well, OK, you’d expect him to be shooting a gun.
When we got home from church today and were getting the Whole Foods bags out of our trunk, it finally dawned on me that the people I could actually see shooting (New Jersey was out there today)were teaching their kids to shoot. Redneck to the left has been teaching his S.O.’s teenage boys to shoot for a while now. New Jersey, though, is teaching his young daughter to shoot. The picture gave me pause. Are we preparing for the apocalypse here? David and I were laughing and joking about it, and I said how much ammunition was being wasted on target practice for kids. David brought me up short by saying that it was better to waste it now than when your kid needs to shoot and can’t hit the broad side of a barn. Then he told me that someone from Cary told him today that he’d bought a .22 semiautomatic.
So guess what we’re doing this afternoon! We’re scrounging through our packed garage, looking for our shotguns and shells, taking them out and cleaning them (the guns, not the shells). Since I haven’t shot a gun in 30 years, I should probably relearn the skill. Why? I don’t know. When the apocalypse comes, it’s not the time to say, “Where did I store those shotgun shells, anyway?” We may be rednecks, but we’s armed rednecks.