I learned how to shoot a gun when I was six years old.

My father took me out to hunt quail and shoot at cans. When he said he was taking me hunting, I hugged my momma extra tight because I suspected that I wasn't coming back home.

I learned how to shoot a .38 Smith and Wesson, a .45 Magnum and a .22. I could shoot the .38 alright, couldn't hit anything. The kickback of the .45 knocked me on my ass and my dad laughed at me. The .22 was easier to handle, gentler on my arms. The wood base was warm against my sleeves. I shot at cans and hit them. I shot at quail and missed on purpose.

It was there, with the. 22 in my arms at six years old, when I realized I could shoot my father.

It occured to me yesterday that those are not the normal kind of thoughts a six year old should have had.

Labels: childhood, memories, parents

( 2comments )

at December 19, 2006 12:07 AM  Anonymous said...

Actually? I'm having a hard time tracking down an online link to the relevant psychological literature at the moment, but I'm sure that most kids, if they don't think of killing their parents, at least fantasize about what life would be like with out them (or maybe without just one or the other).

It's not as uncommon a thought as you seem to believe.

 

at December 19, 2006 12:12 AM  Samantha said...

Sadly, I don't find relief in that. I wish I could, but I wonder if those are the kids who are disturbed anyway. Because sometimes I feel like I'm a ticking time bomb, and I wonder if I'm only posing as a normal person because I love my husband and don't want to disappoint him or my family. But then I suppose we all feel like from time to time.