Yard Sale

There was a yard-sale in town a couple of years ago, early spring. The usual stuff. We bought some books, and spent a little time at the "Growed and Goed" table looking for cheap and disposable toys for Zelly, the then brand-new granddaughter. Maybe a funny hat, or some cool sunglasses. We were about to leave when I saw it, a beat-up black beauty.

I had no idea I wanted, or would ever want, a compound hunting bow, but now I did. I picked it up, an old friend. Drew it. "Don't dry-fire it," the man said. "Bad for the lam'nations."

"Right." I eased the string back to neutral. It had a ranging sight, with six steps. I couldn't believe my luck. "How much?" I asked him. I'd never held a serious bow.

"Twenty."

"Done." It came with an archer's glove, four 385 grain aluminum deer arrows tipped by murderous razors, and a T-shaped trigger thingy that grabbed the string and allowed a perfectly smooth release. There was simply no excuse for not buying this.

I hied me to the greenwood at the first opportunity, carefully laced on the glove, and started trying to murder a nearby maple. No danger there. Nothing touched that tree that day, nor the next and--well, you get it. I spent more time searching for arrows than improving my aim. An intuitive sort, I immediately surmised that this was probably going to take a bit of practice.

But practice didn't help. I'd been careful not to move the range steps, but the sight seemed to bear no relation to any target I might pick. Finally, reasoning that I couldn't possibly do any worse using only my own, flawed judgment, I took it off. I found a target with my own two eyes, a stump, about 18" across, about 35 or 40 yards out. I stared at it until my eyes burned, then drew the bow. When I could see through the stump, I let one go.

Home.

JTA