Two Tickets to the Gun Show
Having grown up in small town Iowa, I should know more about guns than I do. Maybe that's just a stereotypical assumption about growing up in the country. I probably have more friends that hunt than those that don't. My dad wasn't much of a hunter, and I know my grandfater wasn't, either. Dad took my brother out a couple times to hunt pheasants, but with little to show for it. I think my brother learned more about firepower (real and homemade) from his Grandpa Bartu, a gruff, loud scrap iron peddaler/farmer of Czech heritage, on his acreage just outside of Crete, NE. This was where my brother's prized "Goose Gun" was fabricated out of Falstaff, Hamms, and Schaffer steel beer cans, duct tape, and some lighter fluid. So it went that while we did have a couple of shotguns in the house, I never really did much more than shoot the occasional squirrel around the farm with an old, refurbished .22 rifle. One particular two-day killing spree netted 4 squirrels. I ...