Rifles and Shotguns

Evidently there is a big difference between rifles and shotguns, a huge difference. Growing up, watching Rifleman on TV, I thought every long barreled weapon was a rifle and everything that fit in a pocket or a holster was a gun. After all, there was no TV show entitled “Shotgun Man”; to think that I’ve lived my entire life without recognizing this distinction. Apparently it’s like asking about the difference between brown and white sugars. Well,  it depends on who is asked.  Any doctor will say that sugar is sugar and the body deals with either one the same way; no difference.  Julia Child, though, would roll up a thick wad of parchment paper and swat me on the nose while describing the intricacies of cooking with molasses riddled sugar instead of white sugar.  So when I kept referring to shotguns as rifles my patient husband grit his teeth and, undoubtedly contemplating using something more substantial than parchment paper (except for those pesky wife beating laws), tenderly remarked,  “there is a difference! Oh sweet city girl, take a load off those Stuart Weitzmans, and I will teach you a thing or two”.  As was explained to me, while both have the ability to kill, rifles use bullets, have grooves in their barrels, which offer greater accuracy and range, as opposed to shotguns, which have smooth barrels and fire a load of pellets (shots), with less accuracy but more quantity. Ah, so here is what I’ve learned so far: Chuck Connors used a Winchester rifle to make his point.  Tim Allen probably uses a shotgun.  Both pieces are effective, but Chuck Connors was really hot! It was the rifle.

Yesterday the men loaded their shotguns in the trunk and their women in the backseat.  We then scurried over the creek and through the woods to the local ‘outdoor recreational center’, which looked for all the world like a golf course that used shotguns instead of golf clubs.  We even rented a golf cart. The men carried bags of shotgun cartridges to the cart, we hopped on and down the path we rode. It really looked like a golf course, although some areas looked like a miniature golf course with pint size lighthouses dotting each side of the road and a miniature barn on the other side of the water hazard. Each station was set up differently to simulate different environs and sported unique written instructions on the number of shots allowed. When a real pheasant crossed the grass at one station, there was some confusion about whether it was acceptable to shoot it, but nothing could be found in the rulebook, and since it was New Years Day, we pardoned it.  Back to the shooting; whenever “Pull” was yelled, a clay saucer or two appeared in the sky. Clay ‘pigeons’ (I was corrected) were fired at with abandon, scorecards were marked, great conversations re accuracy ensued and then we moved on to the next station.  It was an icy cold day and I was grateful for my warm L.L.Bean barn coat, but I felt like a complete pansy when I noticed one man in the group behind us was wearing shorts.  The others with him weren’t wearing much more either. New Englanders are a hardy stock. While the men discussed the finer points of hitting the clay pigeons I looked around for the ubiquitous Ninth Hole bar.  Alas, it was nowhere to be found.