As I recall, I was around 8 years old. Of course I'd been curious about guns for a while, and my father knew it. On the sly, he'd put up a backstop against a big embankment behind our house. That was when I first began missing everything I shot at with my great grandfather's Winchester 1890 .22 short. I remember joining a junior rifle team in 6th grade and being just amazed at how accurate any given .22 I pulled from the rack was... compared to that Winchester. Now that I think about it, there ought to be a sappy, sentimental song about those days. "It was the summer of '89..."