I have been searching my brain all day for some kind of idea to write about, and I would have given up all hope of having come up with one if I had not found some unused ammunition. No, I am not talking about actual lead projectiles. The ammunition I have in mind is more figurative, but no less potent to solve my problem. You see, I discovered the happy fact that I have not yet written an official installment of “Writer’s Block” in the month of May! Having discovered this, I decided that, with less than two weeks to go in the month itself, ‘tis better to fire off that one unused round of ammunition than to leave it in the old bandolier. And lest anyone worry that that round will be needed but unavailable in the coming twelve last days of May, let me say that I believe my current writer’s block to be so bad that when it wears off (as I trust it soon will), it will give way to such a flurry of ideas that a near-fortnight shall not be able to hold them.
As long as we are on the subject of ammunition, let me hold forth briefly on a not-too-distantly-related subject – namely, firearms. I am not going to argue for or against gun control in this article, except to say that I am definitely a firm believer in gun control. That is, I believe strongly in having a firm, controlling grasp with both hands on my firearm at all times when I am using it.
I was not yet five when I first handled a gun. My father and I went out squirrel hunting, and he let me hold the .22 rifle. It turns out that’s just about all either of us did with that gun, although I seem to recall that he did allow me to fire it off once at a tree. I used that same firearm when Dad took me on my first target practice. I don’t know how well I did, but I remember I had a blast.
Those of you who are gun buffs and pride yourselves on having a veritable armory of your own (which no force foreign or domestic shall ever be able to take without an epic fight) will no doubt call me a sissy or a gun novice for having written so glowingly about my experience with such a piddling little thing as a .22 rifle. But let me say that I have shot all kinds of firearms.
I have shot a .22 pistol. Besides shooting other calibers of both rifles and pistols (both large and amazingly small), I have also shot an SKS and a shotgun. The SKS was a beauty to shoot, with its accuracy and comfortable feel, but the shotgun was a different story. It was the first and last time I ever shot one of those monsters, and I would not have done more lasting damage to the crook of my arm if I had put a full-blown howitzer up to it and blasted away. I would have thought that there was supposed to be more force coming out of the gun than going back the other way, but in that I was mistaken. Not only did the recoil blow me completely backwards, but it also left the most searing pain in my arm and shoulder. I almost believed I had been shot, and I know my arm was useless for some time after that.
Having said all this, I must admit I am far from an expert in guns. I have never shot at a living thing of any kind, much less hit one. I have gone to only one gun show, and I do not have the uncanny ability to know when the next show will be fourteen months in advance. I don’t have a gun rack in my room or any vehicle. I have not studied my clothes and my person in such detail as to know exactly which spot would be perfect to conceal a handgun. If anyone knocked at my door, I would not raise a .45 Magnum before inquiring “Who’s there?” I don’t dress like Rambo just for fun. You gun buffs and survivalists out there will no doubt say that I had better get on the ball, and I won’t disagree with you there. But suffice it to say that guns have never been a great interest and hobby of mine up to now, though I appreciate their value and I do know how to shoot them.
All this talk of guns reminds me – I haven’t been fishing in ages. I know you must be wondering how that reminded me of fishing. Guns reminded me of hunting, which I’ve never done since that squirrel hunting episode two decades ago, and that reminded me of fishing, which I’ve done quite often but not in a long time (my mind works like that when it is under the influence of writer’s block).
I am well-acquainted with salt-water fishing and all that goes with it – the stench of the bait shop, the mosquitoes biting you in the pre-dawn hours, pricking your finger with the hook as you try to attach the squirming shrimp onto it, casting your line out countless times during the day, and waiting tirelessly as countless fish treat themselves to a buffet line at your expense but never once come up for air at your reeling. That’s not to say that I haven’t caught some real keepers before. I once caught a hefty flounder, and the fight I had once with a fat redfish was nothing short of exhilarating.
I need to go fishing someday soon. But for that I need a fishing license. I could always go to a more uncivilized place and marry the two concepts of this article – guns and fishing – by lowering a shotgun into the water and seeing what I can catch that way. But I’d probably break my arm clean off at the shoulder if I did that. Another alternative would be to enter the water myself and wrestle the fish to the shore barehanded like they do in Arkansas (and I’m sure they shoot fish there, too). Whatever I end up doing, here’s to all the sportsmen and sportswomen out there, and to my inner sportsperson – and here’s hoping my writer’s block will soon go the way of the flintlock.
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