Mike is practically giddy with excitement - he's going to learn to reload today! We've been saving brass for well over a year now and his best friend's father, who has all the reloading equipment, is delighted to be able to share his knowledge.
Knowing nothing about the subject myself, I made Mike promise and reassure me about 10 times that no, he is not going to blow a finger off or lose an eye and that there is no chance of him blowing a finger off or losing an eye. (I'm assuming that there's gunpowder involved. I tend to be cautious around things that can go all 'splodey.)
While Mike is learning to make things that go bang, I am taking my mom to the range. She has fun shooting but is still a little nervous around guns. I'm bringing everything we've got, even the rifle. She has recently expressed interest in getting some real one-on-one instruction at the range and perhaps even a gun to keep around the house. I don't know if she fully understands why I carry, but I do know that it makes her nervous and she doesn't like it. Just yesterday she asked me why I wanted to carry at the Medieval Faire next week..."Why would you need to?"
Perhaps it's because I love her and never ever want her heart to be broken by "what if's" or "if only's."
I may proselytize, but I do it very subtly. "Come to the range," I say. "Just you and me! It'll be fun!" I give the big smile, talk about my pretty pink grips and...who could resist a petite pistol shooter? No one has ever said no.
First we chat about safety, then we make some noise. And without fail, every woman I bring to the range gets that same big grin. Every single one.
I'll bring my camera today. You'll see.