As a third grader I was gifted at calculating angles, and less so at common sense. I aimed directly at the point on the boulder that I thought would give the perfect deflection angle. And I was right. The BB hit my friend square. I was horrified to watch his hand instantly grasp what I thought was his eye. I was relieved to see the huge welt on his forehead, two inches above his right eyebrow.

Skip ahead fifteen years. At 24 years old, I remembered the lesson from third grade. That is why I wore goggles. I also feared the bare skin, thus the swear shirt and pants. The rules were simple; shoot as many times as you can at the person on the rope swing as long as they were swinging. Once off the swing, no more shooting. It was difficult to shoot someone moving.

Tara came out in disgust to see grown men playing this foolish game. I had to help her find the fun in it. So I climbed up in the tree, sat on the rope swing and told her to take the gun. I started swinging. She wouldn’t shoot. So I taunted her, and she caved. With the gun pumped several times, she shot. The BB hit me in the only bare spot that was exposed between my sweat shirt and sweat pants; right on the back of my right love handle. I bled. She and my friends laughed.

Not many women can say they’ve shot their husband. Tara can. My ignorance has allowed her to do many things that most other women have not done. We arrived at Memphis in a moving truck, and had never been there before that day. THEN we started looking for a place to live. Six years later we quit our real jobs, had a baby, moved and started a new business; all within 3 months.

This adventure is one she is taking the lead on. I am following her to a place we have never been before. But this time it is not so exciting. More like the BB gun adventure, where the consequences hurt a little. But not quite as funny.