In some ways, somehow, life just seems to go full-circle. Thirty-six years ago I was living in Placerville, Calif., my first son, Michael, was born and within 18 months my second son, John, was born. My husband was a police officer on the Placerville Police Department at the time. I wanted to be a "stay-at-home" mom with my kids but I knew I had to make extra money somehow. I had a good friend, Nancy Carey, who had two boys within months of being the same age as my two boys so I took on the job of taking care of them. It was pretty cool because the boys were all so close that they became more like brothers. That is how I came to be a spare mom to Michael and Steven Carey.
I took care of them, along with my own two for more than two years. Finally I had reached my breaking point when, along with other kids I was taking care of off and on, my third son was born and while trying to run a craft business with my parents, I could do no more. With my own sons Michael and John, now in school, I finally worked at the craft business from my home with just my youngest son Chip to keep occupied. I lost track of Michael and Steven. They were off in school, with my two oldest ones, and I didn't see them much anymore.
The boys all grew up to be young men. A few years ago, I had heard that, the Michael I had taken care of with my own kids, had passed away. He has been gone 12 years now. He had been married and had a son, also named Michael. The reason why I know this is, that my oldest son, had reconnected with Michael's widow, Stacie, and in April of this year, he brought Stacie and young Michael to meet me. Stacie had never remarried and had raised her son on her own all these years. But, for me, when I met little Mike, a small part of my life came full-circle.
"Little Mike" will be 13 on Sept. 5 of this year, and I am having fun, maybe, in an odd way, making up for the years I lost with his dad. It was Mother's Day, of this year, when I sat on the back seat of our quad and let my little scamp give me a million more gray hairs while he made his skidding tour in the yard around the house and the only comment from the peanut gallery watching the quad rodeo was, "Wow, didn't know the quad would go that fast in second gear."
All I have to say is, "It was one heck of an E-Ticket ride!"
This last Sunday, I had another wonderful experience as, I watched my son impart to little Mike, his first lesson in the safe handling of his first gun, an Ithica single-shot .22 lever action rifle. This was something I had watched my son's father do for my son, so many years ago. Life, once again, came full-circle for me. I saw the patience in my son, as he worked with the younger Mike, just like my son's father had done for him. I saw little Mike trying so hard to do everything right. I saw the excitement on a young boy's face as he hit his first target, just as my son had done before him. I knew our little Mike had a pride in something he had done good. It was wonderful to watch.
I know there are many who think what I just advocated is a bad thing. All I have to say is this: I was 8 years old when I shot my first .22 rifle at a target in the sand pits between what is now Walley's Hot Springs and Genoa. That was more years ago than I want to count right now. I went through the Flower Child of the '60s phase untouched by the doctrines taught at the time. The next time I had a gun in my hands was when my then-to-be-husband put a .22 Ruger single-action in my hands, tossed a can in a small lake and told me to try to hit it. I blew it out of the water with the first shot, much to the amazement of onlookers and to myself. I was hooked - I love to target shoot. My children were raised around guns and the best possible lessons of safety of how to handle them that they could have ever had, taught by their father, a range master and training officer for the police department. From the time they were old enough to say the word "gun," they had one in their hands. I am a firm believer in this one fact: The only time a gun is dangerous is when it is in the hands of someone with the lack of knowledge to use it. Shooting is a fun sport. It requires skill as well as knowledge. It isn't for everyone and that's OK. I don't fault anyone who doesn't want anything to do with a gun but, I fault those that chose to take away my right to have one and enjoy a wonderful sport.
Last Sunday, while little Mike was having his first lessons in safe shooting, I was too. I have wanted to graduate in my shooting skills to learn the art of sporting clays, adding a whole new facet to a sport I already love. I have watched all the events, at the Carson Valley Clays gun club, with great interest for more than a year now, too timid to give it a try. Last Sunday I finally hit my first moving targets at the gun club. Back to ground zero for me on the learning curve as I realized this was something totally different from any type of shooting I had ever done in my life. I have more or less mastered stationary target shooting. I have gone through fast-draw competitions and whooped the socks off a guy or two in my time. Shooting is a sport without gender boundaries. Last Sunday, little Mike and I both had our first new shooting experiences together. Yes, life goes full-circle. And guess what? Little Mike and I will keep on keepin' on until we both get it right. It was a great day.
