Slow Movin' Shooters

As I sit here in Elysburg, Pennsylvania, two tables of jewels that I spent hours and hours making now lying in the sun and sparkling at all who pass by – and they are indeed passing by – I am struck by the shapes and sizes of the American trap enthusiast.

I estimate that the median age of the American trap shooter is 68, and the average shape is potato. The usual outfit, not surprisingly, is a t-shirt and jeans or shorts, with a baseball cap advertising something. This is most often topped off with a shooting vest, one of those cotton and mesh contraptions with a million pockets, loops and snaps which are meant to accommodate shooting paraphernalia. Most shooters are men, but increasingly, women are trying their luck at eagle-eye marksmanship and doing quite well. I predict that one day there will be no ladies’ events and no men’s events – just people events. Which women will win, as we are very keen of eye and quite adept at watching two things at once, a prerequisite for excellence in doubles shooting.

What’s most interesting about the American shooter is the pace of his stride. Turtle doesn’t begin to describe it. When you can count one-thousand-one, one-thousand-two between each footstep, you know that’s a slow walker. As a sociological group, women haven’t quite mastered the pace, but I do see them slowing down, and unfortunately, gaining weight as they walk, the negative caloric impact of their perambulatory rhythms showing up before they even finish the promenade. The way we women gain weight, you can easily go from size 10 to size 14 by the end of a shooter’s walk.

The sad side for me about women shooters is they tend to eschew the bling in favor of the sexy shorts, tees and tiny vests. So nobody’s buying from Betty. The other category is wife-of-shooter, who so far have viewed and commented on the jewelry, but have not ponied up the dough. The usual comment is, “Pretty things. But I don’t have my wallet.”

Then what are you carrying in that big satchel? And by the effing way, why are you wearing four-inch heels at a trap shoot? And I’m not talking about first-timers, either. Those women you can forgive, but it’s the ones who I’ve seen several times before, who seem to think this is a runway event, and they must dress accordingly. And still, they don’t buy jewels! Who then, I have to ask myself.

Where is my consumer target? Probably manning the many booths that sell guns (of course), gun equipment, t-shirts, vests, sweat shirts, baseball hats, watches with little guns on their faces, RV equipment, gloves, shoes, sneakers and various other male-type must-haves. My next-door neighbor Patty is selling shooting glasses, oversized specs with lenses of yellow, orange, red and purple, the better to see the target with my dear. She’s been a lot of fun to talk with, and she’s helped me pass the hours happily frying in the sun because it’s so windy my canopy wouldn’t stand a chance.

And just because I decided to give my incredibly astute observations about shooters, two young, and three skinny, ones have just passed by. I may well have to change my opening paragraph. No, now that I look up from my keyboard, that was just an aberration. Here come six more potatoes. I could write a novel by the time they pass this table. And aren’t you lucky I don’t have it in me today