Explosive fire boils from the chamber of a 12 gauge Benelli shotgun as Traci hits a “bird” in the sport of hand-thrown clay pigeon shooting. Note the spent shotgun shell appearing to fly just above her head. Brother Eric is pictured (below) as he pulverizes one of his many birds that day. That’s his spent cartridge flying above the gun’s muzzle while a puff of dust and some bits of the peppered clay target are visible to the far right.
DOWN ON THE OLE FARMSTEAD—
And the ageless sport of clay “pigeon” shooting
I could imagine Normal Rockwell smiling as he contemplated the scene.
The setting was deep in the rolling hills of sparsely populated Perry County where this old farmstead was still the dwelling of family with several lifetimes of memories there.
It was Thanksgiving Day and the kitchen oozed that potpourri of smells a Pilgrim would write home about.
Sister Patsy was the host that day and Sue, my lady friend, and I plus Sue’s grown son Eric and her daughter Traci with grand daughter Makenna were the lucky guests for a traditional celebration.
Earlier that morning Makenna and I hoofed it about a ½ mile up the gravel road and delivered a newspaper Patsy shares with the neighbor fellow. They do things like that down in those hills.
After dinner and an abridged nap by yours truly I joined both generations of younger folk as we toted a pair of shotguns and a box of clay pigeons to a nearby field where we reviewed rules of shooting safety, and, techniques of actually hitting the clay targets in flight.
Eric pawed the weeds with his toe as he apologized for forgetting the target thrower then redeemed himself with an admirable job of pitching the birds by hand.
Tracy and I blazed away in rotating groups of three shots then I made a feeble effort to toss the targets so Eric could enjoy a few cycles of this enjoyable shooting sport.
Turned out he was better at throwing them himself, then shouldering his shotgun and pulverizing the clay targets at a highly commendable rate.
In fact, while we didn’t keep actual count, Tracy was smacking the “birds” at a very high rate of hits herself—an outstanding feat for a lady with zero recent practice.
She reluctantly admitted Eric probably did hit more than she did.
Me? The only thing I managed to shoot was, well, the shotgun.
Makenna, 11, even took a whack at her first ever attempt to hit a clay pigeon. It took her several minutes to forgive us for the thump of recoil that was a bit more than she expected.
But, it wasn’t long until we were warming up inside.
Makenna was sharing her modeling clay creations with her appreciative audience.
And, we spent my first Thanksgiving in recent memory—without a football game on a TV.
Can’t wait to be invited back next year.
DOWN ON THE OLE FARMSTEAD—
And the ageless sport of clay “pigeon” shooting
I could imagine Normal Rockwell smiling as he contemplated the scene.
The setting was deep in the rolling hills of sparsely populated Perry County where this old farmstead was still the dwelling of family with several lifetimes of memories there.
It was Thanksgiving Day and the kitchen oozed that potpourri of smells a Pilgrim would write home about.
Sister Patsy was the host that day and Sue, my lady friend, and I plus Sue’s grown son Eric and her daughter Traci with grand daughter Makenna were the lucky guests for a traditional celebration.
Earlier that morning Makenna and I hoofed it about a ½ mile up the gravel road and delivered a newspaper Patsy shares with the neighbor fellow. They do things like that down in those hills.
After dinner and an abridged nap by yours truly I joined both generations of younger folk as we toted a pair of shotguns and a box of clay pigeons to a nearby field where we reviewed rules of shooting safety, and, techniques of actually hitting the clay targets in flight.
Eric pawed the weeds with his toe as he apologized for forgetting the target thrower then redeemed himself with an admirable job of pitching the birds by hand.
Tracy and I blazed away in rotating groups of three shots then I made a feeble effort to toss the targets so Eric could enjoy a few cycles of this enjoyable shooting sport.
Turned out he was better at throwing them himself, then shouldering his shotgun and pulverizing the clay targets at a highly commendable rate.
In fact, while we didn’t keep actual count, Tracy was smacking the “birds” at a very high rate of hits herself—an outstanding feat for a lady with zero recent practice.
She reluctantly admitted Eric probably did hit more than she did.
Me? The only thing I managed to shoot was, well, the shotgun.
Makenna, 11, even took a whack at her first ever attempt to hit a clay pigeon. It took her several minutes to forgive us for the thump of recoil that was a bit more than she expected.
But, it wasn’t long until we were warming up inside.
Makenna was sharing her modeling clay creations with her appreciative audience.
And, we spent my first Thanksgiving in recent memory—without a football game on a TV.
Can’t wait to be invited back next year.
The small inset photo is a close up view of a clay pigeon. The little "birds" are made of very fragile, baked clay-like material and resemble a Frisbee of about 4" diameter. When thrown, usually by a machine, they sail through the air and explode when hit by shotgun pellets.
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