This summer I bought 20 acres out in Central Washington. I'll admit I've had a pioneer fantasy for years. The idea of living away from the long reach of television news, wireless modems, and escalating urban insanity appeal to me. I was sure that out west the air was clean, the food was greasy, and everybody would wave hello as I drove my pickup past at an amiable speed.

Ok, well out West in the movies.

First thing my Mother did when I told her of my rural purchase was to urge one more shopping trip upon me.

One thousand miles away I could hear her suck on a cigarette, blow the smoke out for emphasis, and with her last bit of breath say in a low voice, "You've got to get a gun."

"Perfect, Mother. How about two? One for the cabin and one for the truck."

"I'm serious," (Inhale on cigarette) "You've got to defend yourself out there." (Exhale smoke) "Have you seen Deliverance?"

And here I thought she was going to mention the Blair Witch Project.

Every time I talked to my mother, she'd ask, "Got your gun, yet?"

Not that I was giving my mother's theory any credence, but I began noticing gun businesses. I saw one whose banner read, "Shoot A Real Tommy Gun with Live Ammunition". Another billboard had a big-haired blonde woman, clad in a blue suit advertising a clean, well-lighted, place called The Place To Shoot.

Just what Papa Hemingway ordered.

The ridiculousness of my mother suggesting that I buy a gun is that neither one of us has ever shot a weapon - although she would argue that point with you. One time, in Northern Minnesota, she killed a squirrel with a BB gun. My dad did have a shotgun to protect his family during the Watts riots. Of course, Minneapolis escaped unscathed and he ultimately sold the gun because he wasn't a hunter. So until I went to the shooting range to fire off a tommy gun, I'd never even seen a gun, let alone held one.

The thing about renting a gun was that it was phenomenally easy. The nice, kindly grandmother behind the counter - busting any preconceptions I had about the NRA - asked me how many rounds I wanted to shoot.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, honey, the tommy gun comes with a complimentary clip of 25 rounds, but most people want to shoot at least 75."

The extra rounds were 5 bucks each. After filling out a form that asked my name, address, and age, she handed me a machine gun and 75 rounds of bullets. She didn't ask to see my driver's license, didn't ask if I was a convicted felon, didn't ask if I felt any unresolved anger. In fact, she didn't even look to see if I'd filled in all the blanks. She just handed me an automatic weapon and three clips. If I'd been fast enough, I could have loaded the gun and taken her out right there.

I was surprised by how much the gun weighed.

"Yep, those old guns weren't made out of injection molded plastic. That gun's made out of wood and steel. The real thing." Grandma Bonnie was joined now by her husband, Grandpa Clyde. "So whatcha want to shoot at?"

Um, silly me. I thought I'd go out on to the shooting range and just fire at one of those bull's eyes.

"Because you got Saddam Hussein, a nice 8 point Buck, or a masked intruder."

I told Clyde that I felt uncomfortable shooting at a human, even if I was anthropomorphizing the target.

Clyde shouts, "Are you some kind of pacifist? Hey, honey, we got ourselves a pacifist."

I am not making this up. At this point, my heart is beating so loudly in my ears that everything is muffled. My cheeks are red and I am grinning like some kind of - well, some kind of deer in headlights.

"You're supposed to want to shoot at Saddam. He's the enemy."

Grinning.

"Oh alright, I'll give you a bull's eye.

I've seen so much violence on TV and in the movies that I just sort of assumed firing a gun would seem just like HillStreetNYPDBlues. You know, I'd shoot and feel the same sort of rush I feel when watching Bruce Willis defeat evil East German terrorists in Die Hard.

I didn't.

For starters, you have to wear headphones because real gunfire is really loud -- even when you're wearing headphones. Second, I was acutely aware that these were real bullets. If I made a mistake, I could kill Clyde or the guy in the next stall. The sudden gravity of actually shooting a gun overwhelmed me. It didn't help that Clyde kept trying to egg me on.

"Come on! Fire it off! Let it rip." Apparently, Clyde was feeling the exhilaration that I was waiting for. "Don't just squeeze out one at a time. This is an automatic weapon."

The fact was I could not fire just one bullet at a time. Each time I pulled the trigger, at least three bullets came out, their shells flying dangerously close to my face. One bounced off my forearm and the hot metal left a blister. Unlike all those sharp shooting movie terrorists, I had no idea where my bullets were going, they just moved too quickly.

The average bullet travels at 1200 feet per second. To put that in terms your brain can understand, that's like blinking once and winding up a quarter of a mile away by the time your eyes re-open. No wonder I couldn't see if a 1 ½ inch bullet hit a target 200 yards away.

Clyde took the gun from me and put in a second clip. Twenty-five rounds seemed like more than enough for me and I told Clyde as much, but he was eager to show a pacifist-saddam-loving-liberal-chick how to really shoot an automatic weapon. He put the butt of the gun under his arm, looking for all the world like Al Capone in plaid, pulled the trigger and fired all 25 rounds in less than one minute.

Now he was the one grinning madly. He pulled off his headphones, turned to me and said, "Now that's the way you shoot a tommy gun."

After getting a $10 refund for the ammunition I didn't use, I left the shooting range and headed immediately for the nearest bar. I needed to stop shaking and regain my composure. A beer and some sunshine seemed right. A pint later, I pulled some shell casings from my pocket and began examining them. They were sooty from the gunpowder and smelled faintly of sulfur.

I started pressing the edge of the casing into the paper coaster, working it back and forth. After five minutes, I pushed the casing through the coaster. There on an inanimate object was what a bullet entry wound would look like, an innocuous looking half-inch diameter. Anything might have made it. But a bullet did.

That's what seemed so unbelievable, and why, I suppose, people have difficulty connecting what they see on the screen with what happens in real life. The screen doesn't show us entry and exit wounds. It doesn't truly replicate the noise of gunfire. It doesn't let a hot shell casing blister your arm. A television show moves onto the next scene or cuts to commercial and we're never left to see the real damage, see people pick up the pieces of their lives.

Maybe I feel this way because I am a pacifist-saddam-loving-liberal. Or maybe I feel this way because four days after my gun encounter, my friend's brother was killed in the Atlanta shootings and I've watched first-hand how a family copes with a .45 caliber, 1200 feet per second bullet. And let me tell you, it isn't like the movies.