I'd never shot a gun in my life and I was on my way to do just that. Me, scared of loud noises, going off to a firing range where a bunch of red-necks with semi-automatic rifles were playing Rambo. And I was with my future father-in-law, my fiance, and my brother-in-law - and I was nervous. But I'd rather be out shooting a gun than trading sewing tips with my mother-in-law!

I don't really like hunting at all. Every male in my husband's family, on both sides, generally likes it and therefore my husband and his brothers participate, too. Although it doesn't really thrill them. I especially don't like hunting just for sport, so at least we eat whatever they happen to blow up. I had the misfortune to be present one weekend when my mother-in-law was serving squirrel stew. Chicken of the tree, says Bob.

We arrived at the range. Guns were unloaded from the Jeep, our seat was selected, and preparations for firing commenced. My father-in-law is very serious about the whole thing, and was the reason for my nervousness. He lines up the sights, uses a telescope to peer anxiously at each and every shot, marks the targets to indicate who shot what from how far, and generally gets really uptight about the whole thing. I don't think he or Bob expected too much of me, but I was going to do my best not to let them down. I could be just as serious as they.

Bob squeezed off three rounds, and we walked to inspect the target. One hundred yards away, the target showed a grouping of three bullets in the third black ring from the bullseye. On a standard target you'll find the bullseye, followed by three black rings, then three white rings. The rings themselves are about a half inch wide, and get slightly larger progressing outward. The bullseye is about the sixe of a half-dollar. A pretty good grouping, showing that the sight on the gun was properly lined up, and that Bob's shooting was pretty accurate. Then it was my turn.

I sat down at the firing bench and assumed the proper form. The butt of the .243 rifle was held firmly against my right shoulder by my left hand gripping the undercarriage. My cheek rested against it, my right eye to the scope. The barrel rested atop piled sandbags. Bob started giving me instructions. And he wouldn't stop - every second or two he was back at my shoulder with another tip:

"Hold the gun tight - it'll kick when it goes off."
"Keep both eyes open and line up the hairs on the target."
"Don't pull the trigger - just squeeze it until it goes off by itself."
"Hold your breath when you're ready to squeeze - try and get it between heartbeats."
"Oh, yeah, don't forget -"

By this time I was getting irritated. I was trying to concentrate, and hold my breath, and keep the hairs lined up on the target, and my heart was beating so wildly the target was dancing around in circles inside the scope. And I had earplugs wedged deeply in my ears - I couldn't understand a word that Bob was saying anyway.

Finally, as he approached my shoulder for one last tip, the gun went off, surprising him. I'd been slowly squeezing, holding my breath longer than an abalone diver, and KAPOW! I'd just shot a gun for the first time! It was a little scary to feel that much power in my hands, knowing that a slip could send a bullet aiming for an innocent bystander. The gun had kicked a little, but not as much as I thought it would.

Bob's father told me to take another shot, which I did, sans commentary from Bob. We didn't look into the telescope this time, but we all set out for the target across the muddy field. "Don't worry if you didn't do very well," whispered Bob, squishing along. "It's really common not to even hit the target the first time you shoot." Hit the target! I was more worried that I'd hit some red-necks target and he'd be pissed at me. I was also worrying about what Bob's dad would think if I'd missed.

One hundred yards away, Bob's father pointed out the grouping of three tiny holes that Bob had fired into the third ring. "These are Bob's shots," he said solemnly. And then he pointed again, looking at me. "These are your shots." His finger marked where two small holes pierced the target. Side by side - in the dead center of the bullseye. Bob stared in disbelief and shock. He'd been shooting for 15 years.

"No, I don't think that scope needs any adjustments at all. Not at all."