Is That A Cannon or Are You Just Happy To See Me?

Generally speaking, I’m not a big proponent of firearms. I don’t hunt, mostly don’t even approve of hunting (unless you’re doing it less for sport and more to feed your family, like my Grandpap back in the day), and would never own a handgun. But that doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy blasting the bejesus out of non-breathing targets.

One of the weirdest, sorta coolest things I’ve ever done on assignment is take a “Personal Safety With Firearms” class, in which the goal was to learn how to blow a hole in someone before they blow (or stab or smash or such) a hole in you. I’ve still got the empty shell casings my (borrowed) .357 magnum shot filling a glass on one of my bookshelves, and a bunch of targets somewhere in my basement with perforations grouped dead in the center that attest to my very surprising accuracy.

So when given the chance to shoot off a Civil War-era CANNON, you best believe I jumped. Even if I was in Jackson, Tennessee and said cannon was pointing most definitely north.

I was in the midst of a trip to the Volunteer State and we’d been watching Civil War reenactors fire a 3-inch ordnance rifle in the middle of a field in the middle of one of Tennessee’s greatest tourist attractions, Casey Jones Village. They went through a whole long, ritualized rigmarole before they even got close to shooting the thing, including yelling something that sounded like “I’ll bite the fuse” and stuffing what unfortunately looked like a hefty feminine product down the barrel with a long, black Q-tip thingy, before the guy who was apparently the Big Cheese threw his arms up in what is universally now accepted as the “Goal!” signal but back then evidently meant “Let’s go ahead and fire this dang thing and kill us some Yankees!”

And after a few more mysterious doings, they did, indeed, finally fire the cannon and it was loud – about as loud as anything I’d ever heard – so loud that I felt it as a blow against my chest. And there was lots and lots of smoke and cheering, too, from everyone watching the proceedings, because it really was a most impressive display. And Mr. Gunter, the dapper cannoneer who was our chaperone, explained that they were only firing a half-load of the one-pound of powder used in the Civil War, a charge that typically sent a ten-pound projectile two miles. And then he asked if anyone wanted to fire the rifle.

Before I knew it I was inserting earplugs as I got a quick lesson in how to shoot a giant killing machine. It involved being handed what looked like a leather dog leash and instructed that, under no circumstances, was I to fire early, as “one a these boys could get hurt real bad.” I was to wait until the Big Cheese dropped his hand dramatically and with great flair, signaling I should pull with all my strength on the leash that I was to hold, oddly, at hip height. Apparently, it was attached to a pin that punctured something when I pulled on it, thus making the whole shebang ignite.

It was really kind of scary waiting to fire the cannon, because, well, it was a CANNON. And someone could conceivably – particularly with me thrown into the works – be injured. But when the time came, I yanked as hard as I could and the cannon fired and no one was hurt. Not even us Yankees. And the whole experience immediately was registered deep within my brain as one of the coolest things I’ve ever done – waaaaaaaay ahead of the gun class.

Afterward, I partook in a ritual that involved drinking cannon water (not great, but better than the beer I used to drink in college) and getting my face smeared with ashes. As I departed the field, still redolent with smoke, the deeply charming Mr. Gunter – whom I may have fallen for just a little – reminded me to “tell all your friends from up north to come on down and visit us here in Tennessee. We love invited guests!”