When I was just a pup my Dad was a section hand on the railroad.
We lived in half a section house by the tracks in a little burg. Sometimes
in the evening my Dad would take his .22 and go for a walk down the
tracks. He would come back with cotton tails, which was a good source
of our protein in those days.
When I was six, seven, & eight, I would get to go with him occasionally
on his walks. Then I finally got to shoot the .22. I was hooked.
By age 10 I had my own. A single shot .22 rifle. More fun than all
of them I have, and have had, since.

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In Omnia Paratus