Sense of smell

I am sort of misplaced in the South. I am mostly democratic in my views. Actually, partisan politics make me vomit. My dad (a staunch conservative) and I debated endlessly on many topics. It fascinated him that I would actually tell people I voted for Bill Clinton not once, but twice. But one point we agreed on was guns. While I do not think that one day the government will kick in my door and take all my guns (as he did), I don’t see any problem with them in the hands of responsible people. My friends have a hard time reconciling the fact that I possess many weapons. (Actually, I only had one gun until my father passed away and I got his massive collection.) I don’t like to hunt, so people think I have them just so I can kill burglars. So be it.

Yesterday, I took my girlfriend out for the truly Southern sport of “shootin’”. Being from a foreign land, guns are, to her, mysterious and American and fascinating. As she is also brilliant, I was not surprised that she grasped the concept of gun safety quickly. Some people are scared of guns. Some people are idiotically stupid with them. She has a healthy respect for them. She is also, I learned, a super bad-ass shot with a .45 auto!

As she is 5 foot nothing, I started her off with a little baby .22 with little baby .22 shorts in it. With the hearing protection on, they sound like breaking a twig. Then we moved up to the .22 LR, about twice the size. A little louder, a little more kick (barley). She learned quickly about sight pictures, breathing, trajectories (well, she IS a math teacher) and wind effect. She was scared and thrilled at the beginning. She was shooting from a bench rest and as she would bring the hammer down on an empty, there would be no trace of flinching - an apt pupil, indeed.

Then, a good old boy that we had been chatting with at the range offered to let her fire his “piece”, a tiny Glock .40 with some light hand-loads that would not be too hard on her. After a magazine full of those, I decided we would skip the .32 auto I had planned for the next step, and progress immediately to the .45 auto. With her second shot she hit a 2 inch fragment of clay pigeon that I had set up 20 yards away. She has the ejected shell casing as her trophy.

We stayed for a few hours. I was able to relieve lots of stress with the .357 and .44 magnums, the .45 and a couple of .32s. I also impressed the shit out of her with my marksmanship. I just could not bring myself to confess to her that, as I had not been shooting in several years, my display of accuracy was just as easily attributed to dumb luck. Then we shot a lot of .22 rapid fire in a little semi-auto rifle and called it a day.

During the ceremonial “cleansing of the guns” that followed later, I mentioned how all day long the smell of spent gunpowder and ejected brass and then the scent of bore cleaners, solvents and machine oil brought back so many vivid memories of my dad. At several points throughout the day, I would be having flashbacks and not even be aware of it. They were vivid and real and very pleasant.

We talked about how smells did that to people, and I was reminded of a certain smell. I don’t know what the smell is, but when it hits me, I am projected back to my grandparent’s house. I am young and wearing Sunday clothes that itch as only Sunday clothes in the late sixties could. I'm sure they were some type of wool! The house is uncomfortably warm and dark. The silence would be complete save for a large clock ticking interminably. The experience is not completely unpleasant – I just have no idea what’s going to happen next. Will I eat Sunday lunch? Will I be spanked for some transgression? I have no clue. But whatever the smell is, it hypnotizes me.