Thursday’s Child

The blistering July sun beat upon Eastern Washington’s landscape. It had killed the wild grass, leaving it withered and brown. The pine trees withstood the harsh rays better. Their prickly needles remained green, a welcome color in a sea of brown. I waited restlessly in the shade of a 4-by-4 truck. About 20 other people waited with me. Most of them wanted a hunting license and were submitting to a baking so they could take the final test. But I had no interest in hunting. I come from a quiet, middle-class family of scholars. We are not outdoor sportsmen, except my dad and brother who attend local college football games. But a few weeks before, my mom had announced that I should learn how to handle a gun.

“Our family doesn’t hunt,” she had explained, “and probably never will. But we live in a sportsman’s paradise. If you go over to a friend’s house and they own guns, you should know the appropriate behavior. Besides, the world has changed from when I was young. It’s more dangerous. You need to learn to protect yourself and not be afraid.”

I agreed with her. Intellectually.

I was born on a Thursday. According to the old rhyme, “Monday’s child is fair of face, Tuesday’s child is full of grace, Wednesday’s child is full of woe, Thursday’s child has far to go…”

Learning to handle a gun lay in my path. It was an obstacle that struck a chord of terror in my soul.

Nevertheless, I had been enrolled in a week-long hunter safety course. The class had learned about guns — the components of guns, proper care of guns, responsibility with guns. We had practically lived and breathed guns. We had taken the written test the day before. I had passed. Today was the final test. First we had to complete an obstacle course. Then everyone had to fire a real, 20-gauge shotgun.

My stomach was a ballroom for butterflies.

Mrs. Gerbing, our family friend, also waited in the shade of the truck. She, too, had taken the hunter safety class. She is a small, strong woman and not afraid of anything. I wanted to be next to her.

The course instructors handed us yellow ear plugs in a little cardboard case. I stuck them in my ears. Then Mrs. Gerbing handed me a pair of ear muffs.

“Take these,” she offered, “They’ll give your ears more protection from the sound of the gunshot.” I hung them around my neck like a noose. She also advised me to hold the gun close to my shoulder. That way the kick of the gun wouldn’t hurt as much.

Hearing loss? Pain? My butterflies began a Russian dervish.

We waited. The instructors took us in groups of three. Mrs. Gerbing and I were at the end of the line. I twisted and fiddled with that little cardboard box until it grew limp in my fingers.

After waiting long enough to read War and Peace, an instructor came for us. I inspected a gun, picked it up, crossed a fence (being careful where I pointed the gun), and was led into a small clearing in the woods. To my left was a scarecrow wearing a bright hunter orange cap and vest. The instructor turned to me.

“If this,” he motioned toward the tree-scape before me, “was flatland all the way to the mountains and a herd was in the middle, would it be a safe shot?”

My academic training set in. “Would the other hunter be there?” I was thinking of the scarecrow.

“No.”

“But the trees and rocks…”

“It’s flat,” he replied.

“You could shoot?”

“Yes.”

This dialogue ended the obstacle course. It was now time for the dreaded part two — firing the shotgun.

Once again I found myself waiting for my turn. As I stood under a puny tree, I remembered back to class. They had told us a story about a little girl who had passed the written test, but when time came to fire the gun, she couldn’t pull the trigger. Would I repeat history?

I fumbled for the ear muffs and put them over my ears. Nearly all sound was cut out. I felt alone, isolated.

Mrs. Gerbing was the first one to shoot from our group. From afar I watched her handle the shotgun. She was strong and steady, like a rock. Could I go that far, be that grown-up?

It was my turn. The gun seemed far away. I put one foot in front of the other, making sure I didn’t trip over the dead grass. The butterflies spread to my chest and arms. Forcing myself to be calm, I picked up the shotgun and loaded it. My arms could barely raise it to my shoulder. In the distance, a white plastic milk carton, the gallon kind my mom gets at the grocery store, dangled helplessly from something. I cannot remember what. I tried to aim.

“OK, this is far enough.” My mind told me, “Quit.” I had finished the obstacle course, wasn’t that enough?

I held still, with the gun raised. Te pure weight of it forced a decision. It was now or never. My index finger found the trigger. I breathed a prayer and started squeezing.

BOOM! An explosion seemed to shatter my surroundings. Pain shot through my shoulder. I had not held the gun tightly enough. Miraculously, I was left standing with my two feet on solid ground. I don’t know if I hit the milk carton. That wasn’t important to me.

The instructor handed me a paper that said I passed. The test was over.

As I walked back to the truck with no gun in my hands, I felt light and free. The gunshot had not shattered my surroundings but rather my fear.

As Thursday’s child, I may still have a long path ahead, but that day I had taken a significant step on the journey.