When we lived in Washington state we used to go out to a makeshift shooting range up by Mom’s cabin and shoot 44 Magnum Blackhawk pistols. They belonged to my step dad, and were some fine guns. Loud as the dickens, too!
This was back in the old days, before whoever made it, made the rule about wearing earplugs when you do something or, are around something that makes a loud noise. I suffered no ill effects from it, and as far as I know neither did Ken or my two sons.
We were out one day, shooting up some defenseless cans and watching them jump into the air when we’d hit them. At one point, Wes was standing beside me—I think he was about nine at the time—and out of the corner of my eye, I could see him jump each time I’d fire the big gun.
When I’d emptied the 44—I don’t think I made any cans jump in the air that time—I looked down at Wes. He was staring toward the targets, then moving his head very slowly, like he might be balancing something on his nose, and was afraid if he moved to quickly it would fall off, he looked up at me with wide eyes and said, “Hey Dad! Listen to my ears!”
Wesley was a hoot, I tell ya!
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Sherry said
Poor baby . . . his little ears were just a ringin’, I reckon!