I’m a lousy shot. Most Wyoming women have learned at least two things about guns – how to handle them safely and how to shoot them. I never mastered that second part.
Like many Wyoming dads, my father would take me to the shooting range on Saturdays and yuck it up with his friends as we little gals – protective earmuffs as big as our heads – tried to shoot inside those teeny concentric circles on the targets. He would try not to look mortified when my target would come back without a scratch.
Hoping my talents were of a more domestic nature, my Mom put me in Saturday-morning sewing classes instead. The apron-like creation I made after six agonizing weeks – with its holey pockets and rusty stains from my bloody fingers – became a bit of a family legend as the rapidly unraveling cloth found uses as dog bedding, dust rag and car-buffer.
I eventually took up the violin.
I found myself thinking about my lack of those skills as I pondered an exhibit about Annie Oakley in the Buffalo Bill Museum in the Buffalo Bill Center of the West. For Phoebe Ann Moses, as she was known until she took her Read More