Eating Crow with Springing Teal
When I announced I wanted to take up Shooting Sports as a hobby, it went over like a fart in church. I can still smell the distinct odor the affair raised—and it wasn’t gunpowder. I heard the Doubting Thomases and the harshest critics say: ‘JoAnna Zurinsky, if you ever manage to blast a clay bird out of that sky, it will be the day monkeys fly out of our butts!’ Now call it what you will, Daddy says it’s a case of good-old fashion German Stubbornness, I call it American Woman Resolve. I was going to hit a clay bird. I was going to do it regardless of whatever anyone said. Daddy and I went out to the field in the back of our barn, and he threw the clays. I took his 12ga Remington pump shotgun, and blasted the smithereens out of a bird, first try! It felt so good. I did it again, and again that afternoon. Sure I missed my fair share, but I didn’t focus on what I was doing wrong, I only focused on what I was doing right. I was having fun, and I was hooked!
And Daddy? Well, he was shocked! My mom, who knew all along that I would do it, bagged up little pieces of clay birds for me to take home as a trophy to show my better, and sometimes un-believing half, Larry, as proof that monkeys sometimes do fly. And out of the strangest places! When I got home, I put the baggie on the table, Larry rolled on the floor laughing. ‘What?’ I asked. Larry blurted out, with Chardonnay gurgling through his nostrils (he was that amused): ‘Hand thrown birds are a great deal different than what you’ll experience at a Gun Club with trap-machine thrown birds!’ Undaunted, I soon got my chance to try Sporting Clays and Skeet.
I asked for a membership to the local gun club for my birthday that year, instead of jewelry—and got it, along with an offer for a full-on psychiatric evaluation. I started going to the gun club every chance I got; with friends, relatives and any country man or woman who lend me their time and ears, so I could yell: “PULL!” I befriended a couple of the members, and the nicknames along with the clays, started flying: JoAnnie Oakley, 12ga Lady, Clay Slayer, The Crapshoot Kid and my personal, but somehow annoyingly favorite, Ram-Jo. These were not all compliments- most of them cute, but condescending in nature.
At the gun club that I discovered Shooting Sports is wonderful fun, it is very competitive, and a boys club. One particular Sunday, my dad’s friends from work were watching me at the Springing Teal stand, and bet a barbecue lunch on the odds that I would not hit single high or low clay out of the brush. I took on the bet. Now, I did not have the money to buy lunch for any of these fellas, but I couldn’t let that stop me! Not a chance! I was going to stand my ground, if I was going to be wrong I was going to at least be bold about it. The taunting began. ‘Hey Ram-Jo, you gonna slay that Springing Teal today? You got a reputation to keep at this club! As long as you’re here, the clays are safe!’ Daddy looked at me, and I looked at him, the stubbornness and resolve creeping out of me, a sly smile crossed my face. We looked at Earl and Joe and yelled: Game On! With Daddy as my cheerleader, and pulling for me in the literal and figurative sense, I knew I could lick the Springing Teal stand. That day, there would be a thing such as a free lunch, but just desserts as well!
I got my clays, and Joe and Earl just stood at the bottom of the stand, jaws on the ground. I came over and they stammered out: “we guess we owe y’all lunch, and Crapshoot Kid, well, we’re kinda sorry.’ I took out my ear protection, and said: “Guys, I have my ear protection in. It silences the loudest of critics!’ Lunch was good. We were all sitting around, and Daddy asked: “Is this the best barbecue you’ve ever eaten or what?!” I smiled and said, “Dad, the chicken sort of tastes like Springing Teal, and I think that Joe and Earl’s ribs must taste like Crow.”
Till the next time: Shoot Straight and Aim High!
J.Z. Zurinsky- My Bullet Points
See the original article at TheHuntersWife.net
