KANSAS FINALE, OR, IT'S TIME TO GO HOME

When I was a sophomore at Kansas State (back in the '60s) Physical Education was still required--for four very long semesters.  I remember four and a half months of tennis in which, because I apparently have little depth perception, I ducked, dodged, and frantically flailed my borrowed tennis racquet at anything that moved.  Because I had long wished to be a prima ballerina, I spent one semester in Modern Dance, tripping over my feet in the back row.  As a sophomore, I worked out--60s style.  They called it calisthenics then and most of what we did was totally debunked by the 80s.    Then...a gift from the administration.  Riflery was approved for PE credit, and I leapt to sign-up.  I come from a relatively short line of PE failures who, for some unknown reason, possess the talent to aim a single-shot 22 rifle at a miniscule target and hit the center. And--this is where it really gets good--this talent can be exercised from a kneeling position, a sitting position, or (my personal favorite) a prone position.  I could lie on my tummy two days a week, shoot a box of 100 bullets each time, and waltz away with an A...which my faltering grade point average badly needed.

Meet my mom, front and center, all in white.  She was the first to discover this marksmanship gene when she also struggled with PE requirements in the late 1920s.  She actually walked away with not only an A, but with medals, awards, and newspaper photos.  (Shouldn't someone have mentioned the skirt malfunction to the girl on the right before the Associated Press got there?)

But, actually, I never used my gift of marksmanship again after that one glorious semester.  I've hosted many a pheasant hunting weekends in the wilds of southwest Kansas, but my shooting days were over...until last Saturday afternoon, when I found myself in the small northwest Kansas town of Hoxie where our family fun activity turned out to be skeet shooting, with a bit of target shooting thrown into the mix.  Of course there was the usual worry of, "Would Grandma Margie mind doing this?"  Ha, Ha, Ha--would Grandma Margie mind?  Just get out of my way you amateurs.  Why, Grandma Margie once blah, blah, blah, Kansas State, blah, blah, blah, my mom, blah, blah, scored a 98 from the prone position, blah, blah, blah...

Bummer Situation #1:  I called for the 22 rifle I thought the children would be firing.  Oh, really!  The children fire 20 gauge shotguns and the occasional 12 gauge?  Oh.   OK.  I'll take the 12 gauge--smaller number, smaller gun?  Right?   Wrong?  Now, I don't know about you, but I think it's pretty evident in the picture above that I have become uncomfortable with this situation...not to mention my flapping mouth. 

Bummer Situation #2:  This sucker is heavy and I'm old.  And, no one is offering to help me lie down in my winning prone position. 

Bummer Situation #3:  Someone needs to recalibrate this baby...I know I hit that target!  And that one!  And, whaddaya mean I missed them all?!? 

Cyd has taken her fingers out of her ears long enough to destroy a few targets.

Taylor, despite his small size and long shotgun, has just hit four out of five targets

Quinlan prefers the clay pigeons.  Dad picks off the few she misses.

BC, despite his winning form misses the clay pigeon, as well as the clay pigeon's clay brothers and sisters.

I missed them?

Are you sure I missed them?

Yes.  You missed them.  I missed the targets that didn't move, you missed the targets that did.  I think it's time for the corn maze.

Now we're lost.