You’ve heard of The Giving Tree. We had one too—only ours didn’t hand out apples or life lessons. It handed out target practice and the occasional splinter. We called it The Shooting Tree.
It stood alone in a little field out back, just past the garden and before the woods swallowed up the horizon. A quiet giant, perfectly placed—lone sentinel, with nothing but deep forest behind it. Over the years, it became our unofficial range. Targets were stapled to its broad trunk, one after another, year after year. And that tree? It stood still and took every shot without flinching.
I don’t know how many rounds it absorbed over the years—thousands, easily. Probably more lead in it than wood by the end. It was the place where kids first learned how to aim, standing shoulder to shoulder with a parent or grandparent, ears muffed, hearts pounding. Where grown-ups retreated after long days to lose themselves in the rhythm of recoil and release. It wasn’t just a shooting spot—it was a rite of passage, a lesson in respect, and a tradition wrapped in bark and powder.
That tree heard our laughter when the target flapped in the breeze and someone missed wide. It bore silent witness to quiet moments, loud frustrations, and family memories tucked into every hole and knot. It wasn’t fancy. But it was ours.
Then, the other day, a windstorm came through. Nothing serious—just a blustery reminder that nature still calls the shots. And when it passed, the field was the same… except it wasn’t. That tree, the one that had stood through more winters than some of our cars, was down. Just one tree toppled. That one. The Shooting Tree.
I guess even the strongest among us wear down eventually. Years of weather, wear, and lead quietly eating away at the core. Maybe it didn’t fall from the wind so much as from a deep exhale after a job well done. Like it knew it had done all it could do.
Now it lies in the field, stripped of duty but not of meaning. I stood there longer than I’d like to admit, just looking at it. Remembering. The echoes of shots long past still hung in the air somehow. The laughter, the teaching moments, the quiet companionship. That tree was part of our story.
We’ll find another place to shoot, sure. Maybe even plant a new tree nearby someday. But there won’t ever be another like it. That old pine gave us more than a place to aim—it gave us memories worth holding onto.
Rest easy, old friend. You stood your ground. You did us proud.
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