I Go to Gun School

I Go To Gun School

         I would like to thank anti gun Mayor Daley for getting me off my ass and out shooting.  Under the old Chicago Ordinance, you didn’t have to qualify to own a handgun.  You just had to have them registered before a certain date and keep the registrations current.  Under the new law, you have to take a class and shoot a target to earn a certificate.  I hadn’t fired my powder burners in 15 years.

So I took the Chicago Firearms Permit class.  There were nine students, six men and three women.  Four were white, four were black and one was Asian.  This is a typical cross section of my Chicago.  I was one of the oldest and the youngest was 21.

         The Instructor went down the line and asked what guns we had.  Most had one or none, except a guy from Iowa, who had several.  Iowa guy and I were the only ones who grew up with guns.  It turned out I was the only one who brought a revolver, Mr. Snubbs, my Colt Detective Special.  (I said I was old.)  Mr. Horse, my Colt 45 automatic was left at home, as I thought a 45 would be a bit too pretentious.  I wasn’t too worried about passing the course but my skill was always better with a revolver than an automatic. Whether bringing their own or renting, the rest had automatics, all nine millimeters, mostly Glocks and Sigs.  The course was geared for self defense, not sport shooting so my 22 was out which left Mr. Snubbs to come along for the ride.

         Speaking with emotion, a grandmother told me her story.

         “My grandson was killed.  You know how in your gut you get a feeling about someone?  You just know they’re no good.  I got that feeling with this guy who killed my grandson.  He was a relative of my son in law.  I told my daughter there’s something not right with him.”

         “He was over at my daughter’s and started going into the rooms and poking around.  My grandson says to him ‘You shouldn’t do that.  This isn’t your house.’  Well that guy got real indignant, pulled out a gun, put it right up on my grandson’s chest and killed him.”

         I talked to her later at the range.  She told me how she grew up down South and went with the men when they went ‘shootin’ and she wasn’t afraid of guns.


         I talked to the youngest woman.  She had never fired a gun before.

         “My neighborhood is getting bad.  I want protection.”  As simple as that.

         The instructor took us into the range.  He put me and Iowa guy down at one end.

         “You guys go ahead and shoot.  I have to baby sit them.”  He nodded at the rest of the class.

         I loaded and set up for the first shot.  I squeezed the trigger.  Boom.  Mr. Snubbs spit fire and pushed back.  I fired a couple more shots.  I had forgotten how fun it felt.  The firing positions were dimly lit and it was hard to make out the front site against the black silhouette target.  I think the first several shots were misses, high and to the right.  The target was lined up next to a vent and the breeze turned the target sideways.  After 12 shots, I reeled the target in and had a look.  They were high and to the right.  I reeled it out farther, past the vent, and got down to business by slowing down and taking time.

Much better and very enjoyable.  The pistol recoils but you keep it under control.  You feel the powder blow back.  You see the flash in the dimness. The burnt powder smell comes to you.  It is a smell you never forget.  The smell of victory.  I’m back.