Summer evenings thereafter were designated for “shooting practice.” Dad kept “The .22” under lock and key in the living room gun closet long before there was ever a legal mandate to do so. Loaded 5-shot clips lay atop boxes of Federal “Hi-Power, XCESS speed” .22 ammo in a locked drawer below. While Ken and I set up paper targets and pop cans in the backyard, Dad gathered the M77, clips, and bullets. When the appropriate time came to shoot, we were apportioned 2 shots apiece, a rule that I violated the first time I stepped to the line. Heck, it was a semi-auto! I quickly ripped off the clip. Brass flew about and that unmistakably sweet scent of spent .22 ammo still wafts through my nose. By Dad’s frown, I knew that my shooting was over for the night. But what a night it had been!