Time Immortal

I see the Liberal election platform, at least as it pertains to crime, is off to a great (snort) start.

For reference, Dion’s proposal is to prohibit assault weapons.  Weapons of this nature — assault weapons are a sub-category of firearm — are already illegal in Canada (at least for private ownership; they are a sometimes necessary tool of the trade for police, and an obligatory tool of the trade for soldiers).

Edmonton leads the nation in gun-related murders (most of which are likely drug or gang-related), but our boys in blue (grey, actually) are devoting themselves to tracking down the dangerous vandals who spray-painted the work “Paki” onto an election sign for Edmonton MLA Aman Gill.

Oh, don’t get me wrong — I’m no fan of racism. Still, in the grand scheme, this kind of seems a non-starter, and was probably just a couple of junior high kids with nothing better to do whilst cutting class thinking it’d be good for a laugh to draw a penis on an election sign. It’s not really worth going after the little brats when, especially in Mill Woods, one can probably find a lucrative drug-pushing operation less than five blocks in any direction from where this act of vandalism took place.

There used to be a grand Thanksgiving tradition in my family, before my grandmother on my dad’s side passed away. Every October long weekend, on the Sunday specifically, we would all meet at Grandma Leona’s (or, as she was known to the larger majority of my family on my dad’s side, “Aunite” Leona) home in Myrnam, Alberta (a tiny little hamlet approximately 180 kilometres east and a little north of Edmonton). All of Dad’s side of the family are of staunch Ukrainian stock, and the meal prepared by Grandma was a reflection of this cultural heritage, as well as of her (and their) Canadian identity as well. Turkey and stuffing complemented perogies (we call them pyrohy) and cabbage rolls (holubtsi), and the meal of course began with the omnipresent borstch (I pray I spelled that somewhere close to correctly!).

And after warm conversation and a wonderful meal, some of us — whoever felt in the mood for it — would retire to a stretch of land owned by my grandmother. And there, in the cool fall evening air, we would set up a launcher and empty several dozens of shotgun shells (perhaps 200 in all, at a guess) into the sky in an attempt to knock down clay pigeons (also called skeets or traps) in mid-flight.

It persisted in my family for years, and I started to go along at about the age of twelve, if memory serves. That would have been in…1994.

My participation in this tradition was sorely limited, however, because in 1996 Grandma Leona suffered the first in a series of strokes that ultimately took her life a year later. At the time, my parents opted to move her into an extended care facility — it’s hard to administer constant care to a loved one at a distance of 180 kilometres — and so the Thanksgiving tradition ended.

Where was this taken?

And for a decade, the tradition laid dormant, a distant memory in mind. I say a decade, O Reader, because this year we resurrected the tradition once more.

My cousin Cameron (not my first cousin, but we do not typically bother with such distinctions in my family) and his wife France live on an acreage well outside of Edson, Alberta, and they generously agreed to host the Thanksgiving dinner this weekend. Pretty much everyone came — sadly, my sisters Megan (who is in New Zealand) and Katie (who currently lives in Calgary, Alberta, and spent the weekend with my great-aunt Jean, whom she lives there with) were unable to attend — and enjoyed a wonderful meal and warm conversation during and after.

And then my Uncle Ron hauled out his collection of rifles — a .22, a .308, and two shotguns that I believe are 18-gauge. The rifles were the first selections of the evening, and Ron set up a series of paper targets along a line of fence-posts across an untended field on Cameron’s property. My shoulder still aches from the kick of the .308…it is a powerful rifle.

And then the clay pigeon launcher was brought out, along with a box of clay discs, and we set about with the shotguns again, firing off many dozens of rounds until the call for dessert was given.

In the process, my sister Carmen went up, and I snapped this picture of her, lining up a shot with a certain expression of glee on her face. The picture is a tad blurry, but I’m not going to complain.

And yes, O Reader, I fired the shotguns as well. In fact, I did quite well — of the six rounds I fired, all six hit their mark, and six clay pigeons were either shattered or had large pieces removed from them. My first three rounds were spent as the “lead” shooter (we pair up when shooting, with one person taking the first shot and the other “covering”), and the second three were spent as the “secondary” to my cousin Lara.

After six, I gave up the gun — it was nice to shoot again, but I hadn’t even intended to hit anything in going up. Six successful shots later, there was no need to shoot anymore; I’d found my mark.

I’m glad that my family was able to come together in a way we haven’t had a chance to enjoy for a full decade. I pray and hope that it is the first of many gatherings to come.

Post-script: Some may find it odd that a centrepiece of my family’s Thanksgiving gathering is the firing off of guns, but I suppose in a sense it reflects the sort of folk we are and the families we come from. We are, typically, fiercely independent people, and people who can appreciate the need to acquire a broad range of skills in life — even the skill to shoot. And some of us are quite good shots; my Uncle Ron does especially well.

I think it worth mentioning that even before the former Liberal government became so intent on gun registration, the emphasis was always placed on safe use of firearms when members of my family gathered to shoot. Nobody ever passes an gun with the safety off. Nobody ever passes a loaded gun. We who have learned to handle guns safely pass the knowledge on first, before passing the gun on.

And the thing is, everyone — even those who aren’t shooting — comes to watch. Because in a sense, it’s just another part of the socialization, not unlike setting out a board game and playing at turns. There’s an element of competition, and those who don’t shoot nevertheless come out to keep talking and to praise a spouse or friend who does well with his or her aim.

That probably doesn’t sound any less odd. But then, I never said my family was not odd. The more I get to know them, though, the more I am convinced that, odd though they may be, they are great people. And for them, especially, I am ever so thankful.