A WILD AND CRAZY GAL

When I was in my early teens, I used guns.  My three brothers were deer hunters in Western Pennsylvania and twenty-two rifles were always in our home. I was taught to load, aim, fire and clean the gun and I knew all about the safety button. I also knew how to break it apart to carry it safely in town.

With a rifle in my hand along with 22 longs, the ammunition needed, I hiked into the Chestnut Ridge and practiced shooting across a reservoir on the way to a place called the “High Rocks” which every kid in our little town knew from years of roaming there. Our families always knew we played there from an early age. We were allowed to roam at will as long as we returned in time for dinner. No one ever got lost on the winding trails up the ridge that featured large rocks, mountain streams and fallen trees with spectacular views from the high rocky hills. You always knew where you were if you took side trails by following the mountain stream that fed into two reservoirs. Usually we would run into a few friends coming and going on the trails.

One day as I was shooting across the water at trees I used as my target, a man called to me asking “didn't I know that the bullets could ricochet and hit something else, possibly him?” I was surrounded by forest and had thought there was no one else around and the idea really frightened me.

What he said stuck in my mind. I stopped using the gun soon after. I  had realized that guns do kill people.