A Beautiful Day at the Range

          “You may load and make ready.” That was the range masters command to me to load my weapon, come to the ready position and prepare to wait for the buzzer. Then begin to fire on the array of targets down range.

          Standing on the firing line I noticed what a beautiful day it was. Temperature was in the low seventies with low humidity and only a few fluffy clouds overhead. It was a carbon copy of this day twenty years ago.

          In my time on this earth, I have witnessed more catastrophes that have changed the way we live or left an indelible imprint in our minds, than I care to. Each one of them has left us asking ourselves and our friends and neighbors not only “Why?” but “Where were you on this day?”

          I was only five, but I remember vividly my grandmother screaming from her front porch to my mom, who was standing on our front porch, that President Kennedy had been shot. Mom began weeping loudly and uncontrollably, scaring me badly because I did not understand her agony.

          I remember the day four students were killed at Kent State, the Watts riots, watching the war in Viet Nam and the fall of Saigon, Watergate and the resignation of President Nixon, the Challenger explosion, and even now Covid-19, and the list could go on. But none would have the impact quite like September 11^th, 2001.

          I was working a “split shift” and had just awakened. I had gone to the kitchen to brew a cup of coffee and make a small breakfast. I had finished my breakfast and took my remaining coffee into the living room to catch the latest news.

When I turned on the TV, I was shocked by what I saw. One of the twin towers was burning. I remember seeing the thick plume of black smoke billowing from it and hearing that a plane had flown into it.

          Thinking it was a horrendous accident, I watched for a few more minutes and was about to flip the channel when I witnessed the second plane fly into the opposite tower. I remember saying out loud to no one “Holy s***, we’re under attack!” And there I stood until it was time to go to work. I was glued to the television. I couldn’t sit and I couldn’t put down my coffee cup. I just stood there. Fixated on every word and image.

          Once I managed to process the whole event unfolding before my eyes, I got ready and headed out the door for my job.

          When I got there, the four people who made up the day shift crew were standing at the end of the only heat-treating oven that was there at that time. I could see them talking and laughing so I assumed they had not heard the news yet.

          When I got to their position I unapologetically broke in and ask if any of them had heard the news. My assumption was correct. “We’re under attack!” I exclaimed, only to be retaliated by odd looks and laughter. “No! I’m serious! We’re under attack and two planes just hit the twin towers in New York city!”

          Ed, Mark, and Tom grew somber and asked for more information. Dave said he had a sister that worked in one of the towers and ran to his office to try to get ahold of her. (He finally did, and she was fine. She worked on the fifth floor of one of the towers and managed to get out quickly.)

          The next day I remember walking out on the porch just before leaving for work and looking up to the sky. Not a single plane to be seen or heard. The sky and general atmosphere seemed surreal.

About a minute later a giant of an aircraft flew low and slow overhead. It was O.D. green with four giant propellers powered by four huge and loud engines and I remember saying to the terrorists who hijacked the planes. “You bastards just changed our world. “(Screw) you!”

“Beeep” the timer signaled, and I engaged my targets. Not quite as smoothly or orderly as I wanted.

I and my wife were once pretty fair shooting competitors some forty years ago and now that I’m retired, I decided that a return to the competitive shooting bays might just be something that I’d enjoy again. Only now it would be more for fun than any shooting I had done some forty to thirty years previous.

Just like any other sport, shooting sports are the domain of the young. Sharp eyes, quick reflexes and steady hands are the winning combinations. Oh, there are some exceptions. But they also include a constant devotion to practice and most always a sponsor or two… or three.

No, my hard competitive days are fond memories now. Now I shoot for fun and shoot the bull with the guys and girls afterwards. But if occasionally I can hear a remark to the effect that “Hey! That old guy can shoot pretty good.” That’s reward enough for me now. But even that was not going to happen today.

I’m bound and determined to find or invent a game where the slow, near-sighted, and arthritic people have the advantage.

Thank you to all the heroic first responders who answered your call that day some twenty years ago. And a special thanks to the passengers of Flight 93 who gave their lives to prevent others from dying and all the passengers and crew of all the flights that went down that day.