This week, I’m stepping away from my usual posts to share a true story—one that brings last week’s topic of manipulation to life in a surprising way. (If you missed that post, you can find it here: ronmcelfreshwriter.com/blog.)
Continuing our series on Overcoming Bad Examples, this story captures a powerful moment from my youth—one where a mistake with a rifle became a turning point. What began as a lesson in gun safety became a deeper lesson about fear, shame, and how to transform failure into wisdom.
It’s taken from my upcoming memoir, Hunting Trails and Trials (not yet published), and I hope it makes you reflect—and maybe smile.
If you enjoy it, feel free to pass along my website to a friend. Stories like these are meant to be shared.
How a twelve-year-old boy, a .22 rifle, and a field full of uncles taught me about danger, dignity, and the longing for a father’s approval.
“Firearms are never toys. Safety is not optional.”
“But thou, O LORD, art a shield for me; my glory, and the lifter up of mine head.” – Psalm 3:3
I carried the .22 in a ready position, pointed at the ground. A briar tugged the trigger—bang! The shot cracked the still air. Every adult head whipped around.
“Didn’t I tell you to keep the safety on?” Dad barked.
“You could’ve killed somebody!” Uncle Sherman yelled.
Uncle Bob shook his head. “Ron, I thought you’d learned something watching me hunt before that storm.”
“Nothing bruises a twelve-year-old boy like shame.”
But I never forgot that moment—Rule One: Keep the safety on until you’re ready to shoot.
It started the summer before. Dad and my uncles—Bob, Sherman, and Bud—gathered us boys for our rite of passage: the day we’d become hunters.
We lined up behind Grandma’s house. Tin cans balanced on a dirt mound. Our “lesson” in gun safety was more like a collection of growled warnings: (For a quick check of gun safety rules check out this website: https://www.nssf.org/safety/rules-firearms-safety/)
“Don’t point it at anyone.” – Uncle Bob
“Don’t trust the safety—check the chamber every time.” – Sherman
“Don’t get careless, Ronnie. You’ll kill someone.” – Dad
There it was again—Ronnie. I hated that name. It felt small. Like, I didn’t belong.
As we took turns firing, a little cousin darted across the line of fire. Uncle Bob snatched her just in time.
“Keep the kids inside!” he hollered through the screen door.
Later that day, we marched into the woods like miniature soldiers—Eugene with the .410, me with the old Sears .22—swinging our rifles like cowboy extras from a bad Western.
A covey of quail flushed. Uncle Bob’s shotgun boomed.
“You call that a scattergun?” Bud teased. “Sounded like it sneezed.”
We flushed rabbits and squirrels. At one point, I bent to tie my shoe and pointed the muzzle at Eugene.
Bob swatted it away. “Watch that muzzle. One mistake’s all it takes.”
“It only takes a second to change a life—or end one.”
Dad’s scowl was worse than a slap. “Do that again, and I’ll tan your hide so hard you won’t sit for a week.”
That night, we cleaned what we’d killed. Uncle Sherman showed us how to skin a squirrel. Eugene pulled too hard and landed flat on his back. We all laughed. I followed with a rabbit—and flung it into the dirt. Two farm dogs devoured it before I could blink. (If you want more information on cleaning small game go to: https://www.themeateater.com/cook/butchering-and-processing/small-game-field-care-tips-2)
We laughed even harder. Even I laughed at myself.
The next morning, Eugene and I set out—unsupervised, of course. Seasoned “veterans” after one day.
Crossing a barbed-wire fence, I used the .22 to push the wire down. Bang! The rifle discharged. The bullet missed Eugene by inches.
“Watch it!” he shouted. “You nearly shot me!”
“Nothing drives a lesson home like nearly losing someone you love.”
We agreed: one of us would cross the fence while the other held the guns. (More near miss hunting stories: https://shilohrifle.com/forums/viewtopic.php?t=10179)
At the swamp, we found snakes—copperheads, cottonmouths, even a diamondback rattler Eugene shot just before it struck me. I fired recklessly toward the reeds, not thinking about the highway that lay beyond.
“When you’re young and armed, courage can look a lot like stupidity.”
We didn’t bring the snakes home. Grandma would’ve run barefoot all the way to town if she’d seen one.
Instead, she handed us knives. “You kill ’em, you skin ’em.”
Skinning frogs is harder than you think.
A year later, the men prepared for another hunt. I asked to go.
“No, Ronnie. Stay here,” Dad said, waving me off like an annoying fly.
Uncle Bob stepped in. “Come on, Herman. Let the boy come. He and Eugene hunted last year and didn’t manage to kill each other.”
Dad gave in with a grunt. “Fine. Just stay out of the way.”
He handed me the .22 like it might explode. I followed, trying to act like I belonged.
At Kendrick Road, a rabbit bolted. Blam-blam-blam! Everyone fired at once.
Back in the brush, I carried the .22 low—safety off. A briar snagged the trigger.
Crack! The rifle fired.
Dad turned, face red as a firestorm. “I ought to tan you right now!”
“Safety! Always on!” Sherman barked.
Bob just stared at me. “That could’ve been someone’s life, Ron.”
“Some lessons burn so deep they never leave you. That was one of them.”
I felt like crawling into a rabbit hole. But I never forgot. Safety isn’t a suggestion. It’s survival.
Years later, I learned why Dad was so hard on me.
Driving him home from Kansas in my Pinto, the truth came out: he believed I wasn’t his son. Mom had had an affair during her pregnancy. She insisted I was his, but doubt had eaten him alive.
It wasn’t me he hated. It was his pain.
“Sometimes we carry the weight of someone else’s wounds without even knowing it.”
Understanding didn’t erase the hurt, but it made reconciliation possible. In time, I became his caregiver. I even managed his finances.
No, Dad never gave me the approval I longed for. But he gave me something else: hard lessons, rough hands, and a voice I still hear when I handle a weapon.
“Respect for life, self-control, and discipline—those were the real trophies I carried out of the woods.”
I learned safety the hard way. But I learned it well.
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Grace and peace to you in 2025.
In His Service,
Ron