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About our third trip out to the city dump, my husband taught me how to shoot. I think it was a .22 pistol. He was relieved that I didn't like it much, and he wouldn't have to share the gun. Later, when I was expecting my first son, I told my husband I didn't want to shoot anymore. I didn't like the squeals in the night. It was about the same time that I developed an aversion to eating eggs. In time, I got over the egg business, but not the shooting.
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