Here and There and Nowhere
There’s a lot in the news, yeah?
Well, cable news or Twitter will take care of you there. I can’t. I know … most of what’s going on and … it’s beyond me.
Shotgun Tales refers to a movie that came out awhile ago. It’s directed by Jeff Nichols, Texas dude, who went on to try some crowd-pleasing Southern Gothic to mixed results. Shotgun Tales itself is a very slight and film school student type of movie telling a very specific tale, one anchored by the presence of a very-young Michael Shannon.
If I remember there is an actual shotgun in the mix and maybe it’s what threads the stories together? Egad. I can’t recall.
I own a shotgun. It’s a home defense tool. I don’t hunt. I don’t compete. In case of emergency, break the glass, find the shotgun.
It’s old as hell. It’s my father’s. It’s in pristine condition and continues to run. Every so often I take it out of storage (so, when I say home defense, it’s for Mad Max or The Road, if someone wants the TV, fine) and go to various shooting ranges here in the area and run a few boxes of shells to make sure I know what the hell I’m doing.
Shotguns are on the very easy side of gun operation, the challenge is in managing the kick, and if you do that then hitting something is not difficult.
The indoor range that allows shotgun use requires you only shoot slugs. This, of course, is so buckshot doesn’t spray everywhere. Makes sense. That said, shotgun slugs are not really home defense ammo. Those things… woof.
So to practice buckshot you have to go outdoors and for that I prefer a shooting pit that’s parked in the ass end of a state park that’s just outside of town.
The park itself hosts fishermen, dirt bike people, hikers, runners, and all the rest. It also has a section for gun people to get their shot on.
Which is where I found myself this past Saturday when, while crouched and reloading, a truck pulled up behind me and stopped. “Hey, where’s the party?” The driver referred to the fact I was the only one out there because a brief downpour chased everyone off. I turned around and found that the driver was a sheriff’s deputy. One, this is the first I’d had police interaction in many many many years. I’m old enough I’m done with that shit. Two, this is the first I’ve been near police while “bearing arms.” What I found was that throughout the conversation I didn’t once fret about having my gun out around a cop, nor did he say a word. We chewed the fat about weather, baseball, and SUVs.
And, well, that’s the story. Lol. It’s funny to me because as a high school or college clown your life revolves around scoring beer or weed and the cops are somehow forever on your ass for that shit. Fast forward a few years, I’m out in the woods with a massive shotgun, boxes of ammo, wearing a black hoodie and dark sunglasses, and this particular cop gives zero fucks about the lethal weapon I have, who I am, or what I’m doing. He’s just on shift, a little bit bored, striking up a chat with another human.
Things change? Whatever.
Things are changing. For me. That’s another story.
I’ve hit a punishing intersection where the lockdown saga has left me depleted as has the workload I took on in that time … and while generally I just need a break there’s also a very loud question in mind that asks … for your age, with how much time you have left, is this really what you want to be doing?
Now, this doesn’t mean throw it all in the turlet, and move to the coast and forage for mussels, live in a yurt, and so on.
Good god. I am hearing a call for a new way, and I’m trying to figure out what the fuck that means.