Glock – Page 5 – Fill Yer Hands

I bought my first pistol, a Gen 2 Glock 17, from a pawn shop in a small town in Alabama in the fall of 1992. It was the only Glock in town, and when I went to pick it up, I asked the owner if he had any 9mm ammo, too. He managed to scrape together 42 rounds of various weights and bullet types, and threw them in, gratis, with a couple of targets. He then showed me all that he knew about the Glock design, including how to field strip it, how to load it, and how to shoot it safely. And I left that shop a very proud gun newby, off to the range.

I was very fortunate that the town I lived in had an awesome outdoor range, one that I have only been able to fully appreciate as I have moved around the country and lived in areas without good public outdoor shooting ranges. Basically, the town had built a new sewer treatment plant, and taken all the excavated dirt up the road about a mile, and built a 10 foot tall 3-sided berm, 100 yards across, and 100 yards deep. The front 50 yards was all crushed gravel, and the last 50 yards was nice grass, planted by the local Boy Scout troop as an Eagle Scout project. That Eagle Scout project also included five covered rifle shooting benches, two large covered pistol bays, and a chain link fence all the way around.

I drove to the range with my new pistol, 42 rounds of ammo, and a target. When I pulled up, I noticed a police car there. Two uniformed police were shooting silhouette targets. Great. I was nervous enough about shooting for the first time, much less with cops there.

I moved my stuff to one of the pistol bays, and made busy while I watched the cops shoot for a while. Soon, they seemed to be finished, and started packing up to leave, so I went to put out a target.

Once of the cops noticed me and called out, and I waved, and he asked, “Hey, what have you got there?” I told him it was my brand new Glock. He smiled and looked at the other cop, and pulled his own Glock out of his holster. “Like this one?” We chatted for a few minutes, long enough for them to find out just how little I knew about my new gun.

So, two experienced cops gave me my first and best hands on training. They showed me how to clean it, what to oil, and, best of all, how to shoot it. In 30 minutes they taught me a decent modified Weaver stance, how to use the sights, how to reload, how to clear malfunctions, and basically how to run the pistol. 42 rounds didn’t last long.

As we parted, one of the cops gave me some of my best advice, too. “When you feel comfortable enough with that thing, get a carry permit, and carry it. We can’t be there all the time.”

Good advice, good teaching, and a good beginning. I was hooked.

I know a lot of people who got started shooting when they were young. They were introduced by a father or grandfather, usually through hunting.

I’m not one of those people.

We had no guns in my home growing up. My Dad had been in the Army and National Guard in the 60’s, but once he left the service he never took another shot as far as I know. I was as interested in playing Cowboys and Army as much as any kid in my neighborhood, but except for a brief summer of BB gun shooting, we never got involved with real guns. Guns were a mystery, and admittedly a source of fear because they were unknown.

After college and getting married, I moved to Texas to take my first job, and there I got to know people for whom guns were just an every day part of life. But I was also playing a lot of company league softball, and I took up golf at that time. So between a young wife, my job, softball, and golf, I didn’t look to add anything new.

In 1992, I decided to change jobs and move back closer to where I grew up in Georgia. I ended up with some money from stock options, which made for a very nice Christmas for my family. I even had some money left over, and I wanted to buy something I would not have bought otherwise.

I can’t say what made me first think about getting a gun, but once I got the idea, I ran with it. I researched the caliber and type of gun I wanted to buy, and I visited lots of gun stores. My youngest brother had just joined the Army, and his advice was to go with 9mm as the caliber, for a couple of good reasons – magazine capacity and availability of ammunition. He told me he could probably walk into a roadside shop in Karachi, Pakistan, and buy a box of 9mm. (Years later he found out he was right.)

My wife was not entirely sold on the idea of having a gun in the house, but she warmed up gradually. I remember her requirement was that it be able to hold a lot of ammunition. “I want to be able to run down the hall shooting at the bad guy, without having to count my shots. Just like Bruce Willis.” So 9mm it was.

After a month of research, I was in a sporting goods store in Marietta, Georgia, with a pistol in my hand, ready to make a buy, only to find I couldn’t buy it because I was a resident of Alabama. That was my first encounter with what I was to find out is an astoundingly stupid collection of gun laws.

So I went home to Alabama and ended up finding a Glock 17 at a pawn shop in the town I lived in. My brother’s opinion of Glock was not the best, however, since the idea of a polymer frame handgun was still new. Glock had been in the US market only about 6 years. But one of his sergeants convinced him it was a good choice, so I made an offer on the gun, and it was mine.

It’s now 19 years later, and I still own that gun, which I named “Bruce” in honor of Bruce Willis, my wife’s model for magazine capacity. I’m shooting Bruce in my banner photo, in fact. He’s my favorite.