When I was six years old my Grandfather got in trouble. It was not his fault, someone bought my brother a toy dart gun for Christmas or that my grandmother had hung up honeycomb crepe paper bells in all the door frames of the house. It was not his fault that my brother was more interested in the trucks that he got.
So I asked Grandpa if he would teach me how to shoot. So what the bells made convenient target practice, it was not his fault that I had good aim. Boy, was my Grandmother mad. She hollered and yelled and even cussed him out.
But out of all of that, I remember spending time with grandpa (who always smelled like pipe tobacco). Sitting on his lap taking careful aim at the bell, and shooting it. It was as if we were the only two in the house and I know that was not true. The house was full of people. Grandma, Grandpa, kids, parents, aunts, and uncles.
But what I remember the most is Grandpa, the smell of his pipe, sitting on his lap, and target practice.