By Marshall Chapman | Fall 07 | Columns

High Heels and Air Rifles

A Southern woman battles squirrels and embraces fate

I was raised by a Southern family that didn’t carry guns, at least not the kind you use to shoot people. My father, of course, had a 12-gauge shotgun that he used for hunting dove and quail. When he wasn’t hunting — which was most of the time — the gun stayed unloaded and locked in its case behind coats hanging in a downstairs closet. In our world, there were no handguns in bedside drawers or car glove compartments. If you weren’t in law enforcement, to carry a handgun would mean you were either a criminal or — God forbid — a redneck.

Years after I left home, my mother surprised everyone when she bought an air rifle and began shooting at squirrels. “They’re pests,” she explained. “You don’t want them in your garden.”

At the time, she and my father were living in an old residential neighborhood in Spartanburg, South Carolina. Fortunately, there were some woods behind their house to screen Mother’s newfound activity from the neighbors. Mother kept the air rifle propped discreetly behind a curtain in the den, next to the sliding glass doors that provided a beautiful view of her prized garden nestled among the oaks and pines.

One time she was hosting her garden club in that den when suddenly she spied a squirrel out in the garden, digging among the hostas. She was about halfway into her presentation – “The Compatibility of Shade Plants” – and was dressed in her usual Southern-lady attire, which included a pair of high heels and a girdle.

“Y’all excuse me, just a minute…” she said while reaching behind the curtain for the air rifle, her high heels clicking as she stepped out on the deck and began firing away.

The first contact I ever had with a gun was at Camp Pinnacle in June 1959, during an activity called “Riflery.” I was ten years old. The instructor showed us how to shoot lying down, propped on both elbows, as we squeezed the trigger of a Remington .22, firing at targets twenty yards away. I was a good shot and won medals for my marksmanship, but riflery wasn’t my thing. I much preferred horseback riding. After camp, I never came close to a gun — at least, not for forty years. Then something happened that kindled my interest with a vengeance. My husband and I had just settled back into our house after a sixteen-month renovation. We had emptied our savings and borrowed money to have the house of our dreams. We were happy with the results, and felt the investment worthwhile. One night, after turning out the bedside lights, I heard what sounded like a scratching noise behind the headboard wall.

“Do you hear that noise?”

“Yeah, it sounds like there’s something in the attic.”

As it turned out, some squirrels had gnawed a hole in the redwood siding just above the copper flashing on the roof of our house. The hole was big enough for a tennis ball to pass through. Upon further inspection, I noticed all the insulation on the wall behind our bed had mysteriously disappeared. This was in the dead of winter.