They waited for us, solemn, somber, committed to their fate    

Today, April 1st, I worried no one would show.  Many of us were on vacation or down with the crud.  I rode down to the range and let myself in.  
I unpacked the bike and looked around.  Birds were singing.  The creek behind the range burbled by.  Suddenly my busy life came to rest.  I took out my camera and took some pictures of “La Garita Pistol Club.”

Babble, burble, gurgle, bird chirp…bird chirp… burble…chirp

  Soon we'd be shooting at them...
Still they waited.  Lovingly formed and painted.
Soon we’d be shooting at them.
The range is going through a metamorphis. money, time and even a dream or two are careingly being invested.  
I deciced I was going to be alone today and picked a target on the old, unimporved part of the range.  I forgot my tape so I marked my holes with a pen and began drills.  
Easy and slow, working on accuracy and developing the things one must learn to do automatically.  Each club member works on his or her game to be better.  We instructors struggle to be as good as they are.  
I shot about fifty rounds and began to pack up.  My phone rang.  A club member was at the gate with his dad.  Then Enrique arrived with his son.  Hell, I still had a few rounds left so we began to shoot.  “Dad” had been a shooter twenty years ago and felt rusty.  His first five rounds went right in the boiler room.  So much for being rusty.

Enrique’s son, Jose, is a top shooter.  He consistantly scored faster and better than the rest of us. It’s good to have someone to beat.  I’m going to have to work harder…  How about you?  Need to knock the dust off?  We’re here to join you.  


 
Father and Son. Father and Son Day.
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