BABOOM!, or As a matter of fact that IS a gun my pocket. Part I

So I visited Cooperstown this weekend. It's the hometown of several friends I met at a book club and one friend wanted me to meet her family. We share tales of our wackadoo dads and she thought her wackadoo dad and I would get a kick out of one another.

Well, we certainly did. Her Dad is a kitty-loving, armed-to-the-teeth Wilfred Brimley. He's got a little bit of the grandpa from 16 Candles in him, too. He is very, very conservative. But also lovely, and funny, and kind. He kisses the hand of every woman he meets, which my friend H and her brother keep telling him is creepy, although I found it sweet. When he sits on the sofa watching Fox News his 13-year-old kitty-cat jumps up and sits on his chest and nuzzles his face. When we came home from dinner he stepped out on the patio and shot five rounds from .41 Magnum.

Afterwards he asked if I wanted to try. I declined, based on my earlier experience. (More on that tomorrow.) Also based on the fact that the energy released from the gun shook the entire house and my entire body. And there was something like a miniaturized Hollywood blockbuster movie explosion that came out of the barrel with each bullet.

When we went back inside my friend's mom asked if he'd fired the .50-caliber muzzle loader (which he had fired earlier, and can I get a G-d-DAMN) because it apparently shoots flames in the dark.