How was it that the archery medals and the names of the girls who had
earned them got so damnably separated from each other? I wish I could
remember.
I didn't like archery very much and had wanted to be either the riflery
or the riding counselor. Or swimming. But instead they had assigned me to
the archery range where for two months I showed young ladies (we did
call them young ladies in those days) how to hold the bow, insert the
arrow, draw back the bow string and release it.
The twang of the string and the plop of the arrow in the red center of
the target were not without their pleasures. The smell of the hay on which
the targets were mounted.
"Yes it's worth the five mile hike with a rah rah rah for Duncan Camp."
But I preferred squinting at the distant paper targets on the rifle
range. Pulling the trigger. Holding the gun steady during the inevitable
backfire. Crack. The smell of the powder. The paper target riddled with
tiny holes. Spent bullet shells on the ground.