On December 10, 2024, after leaving the dentist in Tallahassee, Florida at 4:07 PM following a routine visit, I never anticipated that, several hours later, after years of resignation or perhaps even apathy, I’d draw the proverbial line in the sand at the Walmart in Thomasville, Georgia.
My intentions were mundane. After the dentist, visit either Bass Pro or Academy Sports in Tallahassee, both about six minutes away, to buy a large box of .22 long-rifle bullets. My wife wanted to start pistol lessons with her new Beretta Bobcat. And while shopping for the .22s, I’d check out prices on shotgun shells – in particular 12-gauge, 1⅛-ounce, #8s, which is the only load I shoot simply because anything smaller undermines my confidence as an average recreational clays shooter. Call me crazy, or insecure, perhaps superstitious, but what can I tell you?
