Gone Shootin'

How a Springfieldian-turned-Boston Democrat found her inner Marine

Especially during the coldest February in years, Valentine’s Day should inspire cuddling by the fireplace or drinking something that’s got a good burn on the way down. Instead, my boyfriend’s idea of a recent hot date was the crackling of gunfire and the acrid smell that accompanies smoke escaping a weapon’s barrel.

That’s right. We went to the shootin’ range.

This Ozarks native has been residing in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts for the past eight years. In the Boston area, home of Ted Kennedy and Harvard, the shooting of guns is up there with the stringing up of minorities and the enforcement of marijuana laws—in other words, it’s frowned upon. Shooting is not sport. It’s something Mayor Thomas Menino wants to put a stop to in disadvantaged neighborhoods.

To the average Bostonian, gun racks are a sign that one has wandered into the hills and hollers, beyond civilization and rationale, where something evil surely lurks. Speaking of evil, a Republican my boyfriend is NOT. He’s a Libertarian. (Though, like most Libertarians, he has to be told this.) Their philosophy, put simply, is individual freedom for all.

So, here we are out Highway 65 at Busiek State Park with his arsenal…er, freedom.

“Now, everyone here is real polite,” my boyfriend assures me. “That’s because they’re all armed to the teeth.”
This does nothing to comfort.

Now, in this deep rock quarry, comes the blasting of huge guns.

“They aren’t shooting at you,” he says. “You’ll know they aren’t shooting at you if you hear the report first. You’ll hear a zing and then the report if they’re shooting at you.”

Ummm, so I’m to assume the “zing” would be the bullet rushing past my head and the “report” the ear-splitting racket that transports us to that happy place known as Baghdad.

Until now, the only Target I’ve ever aimed for is the big red box store and its Global Bazaar aisle with the good price on Buddha figurines.

We unload the arsenal and head for the shooting range across a small footbridge and I think to myself: There’s no going back now. I’ve crossed the bridge to violence. Might as well start killing baby rabbits and deer. Think of it as throwing darts or practicing one’s archery skills, my boyfriend tells me. People don’t think of those as murderous activities.

On the snowy range, we spot two different groups taking aim at the brown cardboard boxes that once contained Christmas presents. A couple of seasoned shooters are indeed polite to us.

“We thought it would be too cold out here for most folks,” one of them says, good-naturedly. “Good to know we’re not the only crazy ones.”

Crazy. Love to hear a man holding a semi-automatic weapon utter that word. Music to the ears.

We start off easy, with a BB gun. It’s easy to hold and the brand name “Daisy” leads me to imagine that a silk flower with a ribbon that says “Peace” will pop out just in time to hand to a fellow anti-war activist.

Next, my boyfriend expertly handles the rifle known to me my whole life as a Twenty-Two, instructing on safety and how to load the heart-piercing shaped bullets.

In my tweed coat and beret with matching mittens, I hardly look the part of a sharpshooter. And so, our fellow weekend warriors cannot help but stare. But I do manage to shoot several holes into a brown cardboard box, all the while thinking: This is nothing like darts.

While trying to chamber a round in my next weapon, I cut my finger on the safety lever—irony most anyone could appreciate. Blood begins to spurt everywhere. I feign bravery and wipe it in the snow, leaving a ruby red trail.

Along with the injury, my frozen feet have seemingly become the building blocks of an igloo. And the shooters with whom we bonded have been replaced by several young, nervous-looking types. In addition to an impressive arsenal, they brought a sneering, giggling Teenage Girl Audience who stands behind them smoking cigarettes, almost guaranteed to inspire goofery. We’re done here.

I never get to the 12-gauge, but my boyfriend says he’s proud of me for shooting anything.

As we load up the guns he asks, “So, what did you think?”

“It wasn’t bad,” I answer, and then add somewhere along the highway back toward Springfield, “Hey, can we go to Target?”

U GO:

Busiek State Park Shooting Range
U.S. 65, between Ozark and Branson
Unstaffed, open during daylight hours
Call 417-334-3324 for info.