YOUTH RIMFIRE OPTIONS

Though more than 48 years have passed, I remember the day I received my first firearm as clearly as I remember marrying well out of my league just 14 years ago. That Savage Model 24 .22 Long Rifle/.410 over/under (O/U) appeared under the Christmas tree one snowy Colorado morning, a gift from my step-grandfather, who had hunted tree squirrels with the same gun as a young man. It had been hidden away in some dark, forgotten corner for decades. I came from a decidedly non-hunting family, and this gift proved a blindside for my parents (my animal-lover mother and three-tour-Vietnam-post traumatic stress disorder stepfather). So, when I unwrapped that oddly-shaped package and began dancing with glee, the event went over like the proverbial turd in the punchbowl. Only eight at the time, my parents immediately decided I wasn’t old enough to handle a firearm, and the gift would not be accepted.

- PATRICK MEITIN

I was a bit upset, of course. A heated argument ensued. “Well, a boy ought to have a gun!” Papa proclaimed with much emotion – an utter shock coming from such a normally sedate fellow. I was in full agreement, of course.

For the first year, that gun remained under lock and key. I was allowed to shoot it only under the strictest supervision by my overbearing stepfather, and oddly, only while shooting .22 Short ammunition. I would only occasionally be allowed to shoot two or three .410 shells. I was put through military-style drills by Captain Meitin, to assure any fun was removed from the equation.

Within a year I’d “aced” not one, but two, hunter safety courses (one at school in Colorado – which definitely dates me – another conducted by New Mexico Fish & Game after moving south shortly after). I was also pesky enough that my folks eventually relented on allowing me to take the gun out alone, at which time the O/U took up permanent residence in my bedroom and truly became mine. With this firearm I shot my first game, mostly cottontail rabbits, which I happily dressed, cooked and consumed to my parent’s great horror. Given another year or two, I owned several firearms (purchased with late 1970s/early 1980s fur-trapping money) and was dragging home dead deer and elk.