8/CHRONICLESnPERSPECTIVEnARMS AND THE MANnImust have been 11 or 12 years old before my father put angun into my hands and told me to shoot. By then, I hadnbeen out hunting with him several times a year but I hadnnot ceased marveling at the eiSciency and grace with whichnhe handled a shotgun or a rifle. Once, 1 remember, we hadnjust stepped into the woods a few yards when he motionednme to stop. I saw nothing but watched as he took two shellsnin the fingers of his left hand and pumped one into hisnWinchester .12 gauge. He hit the first grouse as it burst intonthe air, and by the time the second had gone a few feetnhigher, he had ejected, reloaded, and brought it down.nWe were less than a mile from that spot, when he put thensame shotgun in my hands and told me to shoot at a stump.nby Thomas FlemingnnnI was nervous and asked him why he was standing so farnbehind me—it seemed like eight feet. “Don’t worry,” hensaid, “just shoot.” I squeezed the trigger and the wholenuniverse blanked out. I woke to find my father catching menalmost in midair.n1 learned several things from that experience: for example,nwhy skinny littie boys don’t hunt with .12 gaugenshotguns, why “kick” is a more graphic term than “recoil”nfor what a gun does to your shoulder, and why a lifetime ofnshooting had dulled the hearing in one of my father’s ears. Inalso learned to take guns very seriously, indeed. My fathernrefused to let me have an air rifle, because he thought itnencouraged a careless attitude toward firearms, and hisnfavorite form of instruction was encouraging his children tonlearn from their mistakes. 1 learned all I need to know aboutncigarettes, when he found me imitating Bogart. “Don’tnworry,” he reassured me, “if you want to smoke, go ahead.”nHe lit the cigarette and urged me to take a deep drag.nFinally that experience with the shotgun taught me, perhapsnnot for the first time, that fathers positively enjoynseeing their sons taken down a peg. That enjoyment, in mynfather’s case, was bound to be replaced by the realiziationnthat his son would never come close to being the shot henwas.nIn fact, the boy grew up to be a mediocre marksman andna less than mediocre hunter. While in my imagination Inhunted and fished with Hemingway’s Nick Adams, thentruth was that in performance I more resembled Faulkner’snBoone Hoggenbeck. Even so, I still enjoy a walk in thenwoods better if I have a gun in my hands and once wentnthrough the necessary training to be licensed as a huntingnsafety instructor. As Thoreau suggests somewhere, a gunngives you something to do, a purpose that quickens thensenses. A camera might do as well for some people but notnfor me. If I wanted to make pictures, I should have learnednto draw. Besides, the only machines that really satisfy theninner man are those which work the soil or wreak destruction.nIf automobiles weren’t dangerous, no man would buyna Lamborghini.nFast cars, loud guns, and big mouths—they are all partnof the painful process by which boys are sometimes transformedninto men. I say sometimes, because the process isnnot automatic, and it is one that requires more than time.nThere is hardly a human society that does not recognize thendifficulties of adolescence by providing for elaborate rites ofnpassage. Plains Indians would fast and mortify their flesh innhopes of receiving a dream message or a spirit friend, andnnearly everywhere there are special classes, items of dress,nand initiation ceremonies by which troubled youth isn