Caught!

For Father's Day weekend Skip bought me some flowers to plant in my pots. Read that sentence again. I've got a good thing going here. Pippa and I planted all but one right away. That one was carefully put in the shade for later. And it endured a horrible storm that night. Whoops! But that would not be the end of this story.

We planted it a couple days after the storm (it took me that long to decide that it could be revived and I had not killed it). Surprisingly it perked up the next day and had bright pink flower buds. A morning or two after that I noticed some potting soil on the deck. At first I thought I'd been a messy gardener, but when I looked again there was noticeably more soil on the deck and my flower was lying on its side wilting in the heat.

So we anchored it in the soil again and gave it a drink.

Doomed, I thought. And possibly the end of me receiving gifts on Skip's holidays.

Once more it flourished, as much as one little plant can for two days before a horrendous night of wind and rain beat it down. I had placed the plant on a stool to keep the critters out of it. The storm knocked it over and my plant lay a few inches from its pot. By now you believe this to be the bitter end. It is not. We re-planted. And the flower buds returned. And I moved the pot back down on the deck....

And this morning I saw the chipmunk digging in the soil. And tonight I'll be ready with my Daisy Red Ryder. I'm declaring war on the flower obsessed chipmunk and the squirrel that stares at me when I eat.

Miss Fire

Skip decided I needed a Daisy Red Ryder to improve my shooting stance, tone my arm muscles, and reign in my target spread. Apparently we like small scatters on the target, not holes in the neighbors garage.

Also, Skip wanted me to want to go skeet shooting. While I'm not opposed to shooting skeeters it seemed a little excessive and hard to do. I prefer bug spray. You laugh, but skeet shooting felt like trying to smack a mosquito. Awesome if you hit one, frustrating when you don't and it left an itch I couldn't scratch. I really did not like missing the skeet. The gun experts told me to lead the target and shoot when I couldn't see it. OH, and keep your head down, lean forward, stand on one leg, and sing the national anthem. I was trying not to tip over or drop the gun. Thanks guys.

That first trip out left me annoyed. I hit three by accident and the rest of the time shot blindly. I would have done just as well to have my eyes closed. The only thing I felt good about is my fast reflexes. Instead of taking time for things like aiming and breathing I yelled "pull" and and flicked the trigger. My coaches complained that I was shooting ahead of the target, when most beginners lag behind.

Enter Daisy. Skip determined I needed practice. He bought me the gun and a pack of ginger ale. We could quench our thirst and my queasy  stomach all in the name of target practice. I became a quick and accurate shot when the pop can was a mere 12 inches away. A natural. Then I learned an old western trick and made the pop can dance. As it flipped and turned my shot distance grew. Soon I was hitting at 80 percent and 16 foot distance.

This translated well over the weekend when I battled the skeet again. True to my style I fired quickly, but this time I heard a reassuring smack and ducked as the broken skeet sprayed around me. I even endured my first misfire in the middle of my round. While loading the case I drove a bullet into the ground. My sleuth of a husband determined there was no way possible I touched the trigger based on the two handed hold I need to load the bullet. The guys jumped a little, I jumped a lot, and then they welcomed me into the club of official gunsmen. If you haven't had a misfire, you haven't shot much. Or so they say. I say you're lucky.