Hunting wasn’t a part of my childhood. The closest I got was the time my uncle taught my brother and me to shoot a .22 at the windows of some decrepit building on his land in Georgia. He showed us how to put the stock in the crook of our shoulder so the kick wouldn’t surprise us (though it still did; I’d have sworn my shoulder was dislocated); how to focus on the front sight, not the target; and how to softly squeeze the trigger to shoot.Bro, seriously. A .22 made you feel like your shoulder was dislocated?
I don't doubt that any uncle who let some kids shoot out windows on an old shed for target practice was maybe slack about ear protection and, okay, maybe the noise was startling and painful, but there's not a .22 rifle made that recoils enough to distress a toddler.
Making me curl my lip in involuntary disdain in the opening paragraph does not help me take you seriously for the rest of the column.
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