My first recollection involving a real gun was when I was about 8 years old and Dad took us boys out to a pasture in Minnesota with a 12-gauge.
One of the brothers was smart. He brought along two washcloths and packed them under his shirt to absorb the kick. He didn’t share, so the rest of us nearly had our arms ripped off when we pulled the trigger. I declined Dad’s offer for another go at it, and it was a while before I shot another gun.
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