A few days before Thanksgiving, E.S. mentioned in passing something about having gone on a hunting trip as a child.
“You’ve shot a gun?” I asked, incredulous.
“Honey, I’m from Iowa,” he replied. “I’m actually a pretty good shot.”
After we had consummated the ecstasies into which the idea of E.S. butchly shooting a gun had sent me, we continued the conversation. “Wait a minute,” I said. “Your dad is a member of the National Rifle Association, right?”
“Does that mean he has a gun in his house?”
“Actually, he has three. If you want, when we’re there for Thanksgiving we can go to the shooting range and you can shoot them.”
My former ecstasies were as nothing compared to the delirium into which this idea sent me. Though I wasn’t quite sure how E.S.’s parents’ spirit guide would feel about his charge’s being a member of the National Rifle Association, I figured maybe E.S.’s father just hadn’t mentioned it in their conversations.
Alas, it turned out that the shooting range was closed on Thanksgiving, so I’m going to have to wait til Christmas Eve to shoot a gun. However, I did get gun safety lessons, and all my enemies had better keep this picture of me in mind for future reference.