It’s been over a year since I last shot a gun. I was in my hometown for this Thanksgiving, and so was my brother, so we and our dad took the opportunity to take the guns out. My brother’s girlfriend and my oldest son (7 years) went with us.

This time, instead of going out behind the grandparents’ farm, my dad had called and got us a place on an actual shooting range. Or so it was supposed to be. None of us had ever been to the location, so we weren’t sure how it would work.

When we arrived at the “range land,” we found the place deserted except for a couple dozen hunting dogs in chain link fence kennels. My dad and I opened a door to the old wooden shack — about 20′ by 40′ — and the first thing we saw was a wide flow of blood on the concrete floor.

Following the glistening dark red trail with our eyes, from just inside the doorway, we found the cut-up deer in a big metal bucket. A pretty fresh kill. No one answered our calls. We checked in another door and still found no one. So my dad used his cell phone to call the owner/operator to see what was up. We were supposed to have an appointment for this time and place.

Out back of the shack was what looked to be the range. It was pretty small, especially for an outdoor range. The longest line I could figure looked no more than maybe 30 yards. There was a tower for observation, with the rules of the range listed, but otherwise, the set up was pretty sparse.

Eventually the owner came driving up in his pickup truck. After a greeting and explanation of our intentions, he told us to follow him in our vehicle. He took us to what had been a corn field that summer, and told us we could shoot there. “Shoot in that direction. And try to aim low. There’s quail hunters over to the right.” He then left us to our entertainment. We could hear occasional shooting off in the distance. The Friday after Thanksgiving is a big deer hunting day.

So there we were, with a small arsenal of firearms, in the middle of a small field. To our left, on the other side of our vehicle (sitting on the rutted truck path) was a couple acres of new-growth pine trees. Behind us and to our right, was a thin copse of older pine trees, through which we could see a couple of houses and trucks (the tertiary blacktop ran between the trees and the houses). And in front of us, about 80 yards away, was a more sizable woods full of pines and hardwoods.

With the direction we were told to shoot in, the only things upright were some old brown corn stalks. We attached a paper target to a corn stalk (about 12 inches off the ground). We wouldn’t be able to do any real tracking on that target, but at least it gave us something to aim at.

We set about arming up. . . . to be continued.

Bullgrit

Coming home from work, I walked into the house and said, “Hey, everyone.” There was no reaction from my boys, playing in the den.

Cowgrit was in the kitchen, to my left, cooking dinner. She said, “They’re wrapped up with themselves right now. They didn’t even hear you.”

I put my backpack down on the floor, against the wall, and walked into the kitchen to give her a hug. As we stood there in our embrace, we could see the boys through the opening between the kitchen and den. Calfgrit4 looked up at us, and without saying anything, he stood up and started running.

“Now he’s noticed,” Cowgrit said.

CG4 left the den in a dash, rounded the foyer, and ran through the kitchen doorway. I braced for impact, and he collided into my backside to join our hug at a dead run. His height compared to me is such that if not for strong jeans, and a wary clinching of the buttocks . . . .

Bullgrit

Barbequed turkey. Baked ham. Creamed corn. Baked beans. Butterbeans. Macaroni and cheese. Potato salad. I always want to eat some of all of it, but after a serving of three or four items, I’m about to burst. And then there’s the dessert table.

Brownies. Chocolate chip cookies. Lemon pie. Chocolate pie. Oreo cheesecake. Butter pumpkin pie. A healthy person could go into a diabetic coma — and it’d be worth it. I always want to eat some of all of it, but after a serving of three or four items, I’m thinking, “Oh God, what have I done to myself?”

On Thanksgiving day, and on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, I always end up eating more at one meal than I’d normally eat in three meals any other day of the year. You’d think I could live for at least a couple of days without needing to eat again, but somehow, I end up hungry again come breakfast.

Bullgrit

It should be a given that I’m thankful for my family and friends and health and all that stuff. So I want to extend my thanks to all of you who regularly visit this site. Thank you for coming by, and thank you for passing the word around about this place.

When this place was new, (a year and a half ago), it sort of felt like I was just talking to myself. But as word started spreading — thanks to you who started reading at or near the beginning — I actually started having a gathering. And now that the word is apparently spreading much faster — thanks to all of you who have been reading over the past weeks and months — the gathering is turning into an audience.

I appreciate you not only stopping by and reading each day, but I really appreciate you spreading the word. And thank you to you folks who are leaving comments — it’s great to see other people’s opinions and experiences.

I also appreciate those of you who are ordering BULLGRIT shirts and stickers. Let me know if there’s a style or item you’d like that isn’t in my store — I can arrange new stuff.

And Cowgrit and the Calves appreciate the emails to them (sent through my address). I probably should set up special addresses just for them. I think I’ll do that this weekend.

Thank you.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Bullgrit