Memorial Daze

This was how I spent Memorial Day when I was in high school. In our summer uniforms, marching in some parade in some small town in southwest Michigan; I expect this was as much as many of my high school friends will ever think about the holiday.

I remember when we lived up there, going over to the cemetary to visit my grandfather's grave. He had been in the Korean conflict, and though he was not killed or wounded there, we still took time in the day to honor him. A lucky incident, really; when he was getting off the bus at the area where they were shipping new arrivals, a UN officer was asking each man who disembarked if they knew how to type. My grandpa was the first to tell him yes, so he spent 11 months in a UN tent, typing orders for soldiers and sailors from around the world, and never saw a day of combat. Give it up for nerds. My dad wasn't conceived until after grandpa came home.

My other grandfather, on my mom's side, served in the US Navy. I say served, but it really isn't a past tense- an inquiry a couple of years ago about his eligibility for diabetic treatment at the VA hospital in Indianapolis showed that he was not, in fact, a veteran. Dimly remembering some special papers signed, my grandpa directed his caseworker to the files in Cleveland, which shows him still, at 77, an enlisted man in the United States Navy. Apparently, he was some sort of legend in his area, underwater maneuvers and combat. He signed papers with Great Lakes Naval Academy that he would return at 24 hours notice if they ever have need of him. Those papers evidently still stand, though I doubt he would be as effective today, with his arthritis, bum shoulder and replaced hip.

On Sunday, we went down to my uncle's farm to celebrate the birthdays of one of my aunts and one of my uncles. My brother brought his guns along, as he occasionally does, however this time it was done with some purpose. We have talked about a lot of things since I have been home, and one of those things is his entry into law enforcement (he got his phone call about being a special deputy today) and my stance on pacifism. At first, I said I never wanted to touch a gun; I know I never hope to use one, even if I have occasion to do so. However, this little niggling part of me took hold in the back of my mind. I should know about them. As much as I abhor violence, I should know what's coming to me. How to avoid certain situations. How they work; how to keep them clean and how to jam them. The student in me piped up, "learn every skill you possibly can! You never know when you will need them!" So, Dan, Tan-Tan, Mom, Dave and I trudged down to the pond, Dan's .22 calibre Walther and a .22 calibre Golden Boy rifle in tow. And lots of bullets.

Target practice was sticks floating in the pond. Good grief, it was hot. And muggy. Indiana, home of the winding Wabash and corn and cattle.... and rainforest climate. We didn't even get any spring this year; it just went straight from 40 degrees to 90 in the space of 72 hours. Oh well. I digress. The pond. Yes, Dan explained to me very carefully the tube magazine and loading procedures, as well as the safety on the Golden Boy (my finger) and then he threw some sticks in, and demonstrated a couple of shots before handing me the rifle. It felt solid and heavy, and just about the right size for me. I was sweating like mad, still wearing my dress slacks and shoes from work earlier in the day, and an old t-shirt borrowed from my aunt with a "Shepherd Community" logo on it. This was the first time I had hoisted a gun. I pulled the butt of the rifle back into my shoulder, like Dan had showed me, and lined the bead up in the sights. I aimed for a nearby stick, and squeezed the trigger, shutting my eyes reflexively as I heard this discharge. I opened them to see the stick bobbing, and Dan saying with a pleased note in his voice, "You hit it, Bef." Ok, so I hit it.

Next, I wanted to aim out a little, and not shut my eyes. I don't know what I think I was doing, anyway- I wear glasses, and I had earplugs in, so I couldn't have protected anything any more than I already was. I pulled the rifle down, pumped the lever, and ejected the spent shell out into the grass, watching through the small hole in the side of the action as another bullet slid smoothly home. I pulled the gun back up, and aimed for a stick much further out in the pond, a good 25 yards from us, probably 6 inches long and bobbing gently in the water. Carefully setting the bead in the sights, I held the gun steady and pulled the trigger, keeping my eyes open and trying to absorb the recoil with my shoulder. The stick shot up in the air a good foot, flipping end over end as it came back down to the water with a splash. I gave a quick look over to my brother, who looked genuinely surprised, and grinned at me. He only said one word, which was "good," and I grinned back. I pulled the gun up again after chambering another bullet, aimed, fired, and watched the stick fly up like a fish for the second time that day.

After we shot some more, and were heading back up into the house, Dan told me he was surprised at my shooting. Honestly, I was too. He then looked at me seriously, and said, "Don't take this the wrong way, Bef, but you don't shoot like a girl. I mean, you don't look like a girl at all when you're shooting." I laughed. I've had that problem for a long time.