place various targets. With the help of some gun buddies, he dragged an old, broken-down washing machine to the center of the range. It made the perfect backstop for most bullets, although some of the largest-caliber slugs were capable of punching a hole in both the thin metal at the front of the machine and the thicker steel at the back of it. While the front of the machine looked like the surface of a sponge with its countless smooth holes, the back looked like the claws and teeth of some mechanical nightmare. We kids —especially Jerry and me, who began to spend more time helping Dad with his guns,while Sheri spent her energy avoiding Dad —quickly learned to walk a wide berth around the back of the machine, since its jagged edges could slice open skin and clothing like a scalpel.
Once the gun range was up and running, it was guaranteed that on Saturdays and Sundays, Jerry and I would be in constant demand as reloaders and spotters. From somewhere he wouldn’t reveal, Dad had acquired a World War II–era antitank gun, which was basically a gigantic rifle capable of penetrating —through sheer, brute force —the armor of a tank. Once Dad found a guy who could sell him shells for it, he began to charge people to fire the weapon. Jerry and I helped him set up targets made of plate steel, and then whichever guys happened to be hanging around could buy ammo from Dad for three bucks per shot. Each shell was an inch across and nearly as long as my forearm, and there was so much recoil that the gun needed to be fired from a prone position. The shells loaded through a curved magazine on the top, and the gun’s long barrel rested on a short tripod. Since each shot was so precious, the guys would take their sweet time: loading, sighting, standing up and discussing what might happen, checking the wind, resighting, and so on. It was almost like a religious ritual for them, the climax of which came when their shot punched a hole through a couple inches of solid steel. Dad would preside over the shooters, hands on his hips, smirking as if he’d built the gun with his own hands.
After building the range, there was the problem of where to put everyone who wanted to shoot. During the busiest times, there might be six or eight of Dad’s friends out behind the house, each with a weapon or three, so Dad built a two-story gun tower off to one side of the house, next to the shed, about two hundred yards from the range. The first story was all braces and pilings, along with a ladder, and the second story was a flat platform —about the size of a large bedroom —accessed by a hatch in the floor. From the second level, the guys could shoot and brag and cuss and swap guns to their hearts’ content.
Mom hated the gun range, but not because she hated the guns.When she and Dad were dating, they had gone rat shooting at the dump with .22s, and they had even driven all the way to Montana once to hunt bear. No, what galled Mom was that Dad considered it part of his business —that blowing up a bunch of junk with his buddies counted the same as her cooking and cleaning and mending or the same as one of her part-time jobs as a receptionist or clerk in town. But what could she say? The proof was right there on the mailbox: it said Dad was running a gun company , not a hobby.
“Your father likes his playtime,” she would sometimes say, “but it’s not playtime you boys need to be part of.”
That was her opinion, but Dad had a different one. We did have to be part of his playtime, whether we liked it or not. At least when he was inside with his buddies, he forgot about giving us jobs. He would invite guys over, and when they knocked, he would open the front door with his left hand. Then he’d bang his heels together and stick his right arm out in front of him, like he was pointing at the sun.
“ Sieg heil ! ”
His friends would do the same thing back, and often they were dressed in tan or camouflage uniforms. If
Once the gun range was up and running, it was guaranteed that on Saturdays and Sundays, Jerry and I would be in constant demand as reloaders and spotters. From somewhere he wouldn’t reveal, Dad had acquired a World War II–era antitank gun, which was basically a gigantic rifle capable of penetrating —through sheer, brute force —the armor of a tank. Once Dad found a guy who could sell him shells for it, he began to charge people to fire the weapon. Jerry and I helped him set up targets made of plate steel, and then whichever guys happened to be hanging around could buy ammo from Dad for three bucks per shot. Each shell was an inch across and nearly as long as my forearm, and there was so much recoil that the gun needed to be fired from a prone position. The shells loaded through a curved magazine on the top, and the gun’s long barrel rested on a short tripod. Since each shot was so precious, the guys would take their sweet time: loading, sighting, standing up and discussing what might happen, checking the wind, resighting, and so on. It was almost like a religious ritual for them, the climax of which came when their shot punched a hole through a couple inches of solid steel. Dad would preside over the shooters, hands on his hips, smirking as if he’d built the gun with his own hands.
After building the range, there was the problem of where to put everyone who wanted to shoot. During the busiest times, there might be six or eight of Dad’s friends out behind the house, each with a weapon or three, so Dad built a two-story gun tower off to one side of the house, next to the shed, about two hundred yards from the range. The first story was all braces and pilings, along with a ladder, and the second story was a flat platform —about the size of a large bedroom —accessed by a hatch in the floor. From the second level, the guys could shoot and brag and cuss and swap guns to their hearts’ content.
Mom hated the gun range, but not because she hated the guns.When she and Dad were dating, they had gone rat shooting at the dump with .22s, and they had even driven all the way to Montana once to hunt bear. No, what galled Mom was that Dad considered it part of his business —that blowing up a bunch of junk with his buddies counted the same as her cooking and cleaning and mending or the same as one of her part-time jobs as a receptionist or clerk in town. But what could she say? The proof was right there on the mailbox: it said Dad was running a gun company , not a hobby.
“Your father likes his playtime,” she would sometimes say, “but it’s not playtime you boys need to be part of.”
That was her opinion, but Dad had a different one. We did have to be part of his playtime, whether we liked it or not. At least when he was inside with his buddies, he forgot about giving us jobs. He would invite guys over, and when they knocked, he would open the front door with his left hand. Then he’d bang his heels together and stick his right arm out in front of him, like he was pointing at the sun.
“ Sieg heil ! ”
His friends would do the same thing back, and often they were dressed in tan or camouflage uniforms. If
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