I took Dad to the target range today. I hadn’t shot in three years, nor he in seven. He, using my .22, was pleased enough with his shooting to take his target home.
With my .40, I did better than I expected after so long: my shots at ten yards were in groups smaller than my fist, which is plenty good enough for most practical purposes (not that I ever hope to use a pistol for practical purposes). As usual my left hand was steadier than my right; I said to Dad, “Are you sure I’m not left-handed?”