I confessed in Moment #34 that, despite my long-standing peace-loving nature, I had an unexplained urge to, for the first time, hold and fire a gun. I have now done so, and concurrently our country has gone to war. I hope there is no correlation!

Though seeking this gun-toting experience, I was prepared not to enjoy it. It felt like a duty. But it wasn’t. It was fun. Largely because I accompanied my granddaughter, who, as a Police Cadet, has laudably chosen a career of sacrifice and public service. And, realistically, her gun is a necessary tool for good.

It was fun, too, because the drive to the gun range atop a beautiful hill 20 miles as the crow flies northwest of my front porch felt like a predestined trip to another dimension. For the sonic waves in my car were filled with the likes of one Tab Benoit singing on a station never before on my radio dial “Who’s making dirty dishes with you,” a husbandly question smelling a lot like a prelude to violence needing quelling.

As I turned into the gun range at the summit of a steep deliciously curvy country road, I was hit in the chest with a powerful blast of positive energy, for, strikingly, all vehicles were parked facing outwards, ready to run, ready to explode out of there, with, say, the force of a fired bullet.

Inside the range I passed racks of “The Big Ass Brick of Soap,” “Dr. Squatch’s Beard Oil,” signs like “Smells like Productivity,” and “We did Iwo Jima and we can do this,” all under the aegis of a very large American flag. This ain’t Kansas, Toto. I was lovin’ it.

At the heart of my adventure was my rendezvous with my granddaughter’s Glock 19, semi, 9mm – I wasn’t ready for a Dirty Harry – and a coach who patiently schooled me before turning me loose in front of a target on lane 10. The Glock felt light and comfortable in my hand, though I fumbled several times with the one or two steps preparatory to firing.

I was not nervous, but my 86-year-old hands and arms were trembly in the beginning, and I didn’t hit the target at all with multiple shots in my first round. I was surprised at such a powerful kick from so small a gun, and, ironically, I found myself wondering at the physical control necessary to maintain reasonable accuracy in a rapid-fire situation such as a chase.

I calmed down, though, and did reasonably well in subsequent rounds, and was energized by the experience as I went on. I felt good when done, not what I had expected, not like I had been flirting with the She Devil. I admit to wishing I could sneak some beard oil or beer soap past Betty when I got home.

The other world quality of the experience followed me back to Normality, for paralleling my ascent of the gun range hill, on the descent I was serenaded on that radio station especially sent to my car that day by one Robert Cray puzzling over what deed he’d done with “that still-hot smokin’ gun.” Perfect circularity.

I think I have gotten my gun fixation out of my system.