Louisville Magazine is Louisville's city magazine, covering Louisville people, lifestyles, politics, sports, restaurants, entertainment and homes. Includes a monthly calendar of events.
Issue link: https://loumag.epubxp.com/i/532701
100 LOUISVILLE MAGAZINE 7.15 kentuckytotheworld.org past her later, Bif pats her on the bottom. But Bif's reminiscences remain sour. "Te people who have been raised since World War II don't know diddly-shit about guns as far as guns is concerned," he says. "Tey think they're bad. But it's all right to go out here and smoke a joint." In fact, guns have more public acceptance than ever. A 2014 Gallup poll found that 73 percent of respondents would not favor a hand- gun ban. In 1959, 60 percent of Americans favored a ban. But we have a nice visit, with Bif holding forth on a world of topics until I have to leave. I need to do something with that gun. My gun. Rose Wolfe has two rings on nearly every fnger on her right hand, and I see a ring on her left thumb. Delicate cherry trees blos- som on each fngernail. Right now, her concern is for my safety. In the event of a break-in, she tells me, "You want to get behind your bed," to use it as a barrier. Te mattress will help hold my shooting arm steady as I blast away at the intruder. I'm more the hide-under-the-bed sort of crime-fghter. Or maybe in the closet, although I can't help acknowledging that her approach has value. Wolfe and I are at Monk's Alibi Club in Fairdale for the Tursday Night Ladies Shoot. I really do not want to be here. Gingerly, I bring out my new gun. When I bought it, I brought it home, put it in a closet, and closed the door. I didn't want to think about it. Yet I thought about it all the time. As I worked at my desk, it would fash into my consciousness. It did not make me feel safe; instead, it expanded my sense of vulnerability. Every person who came to the door became a potential enemy. Should I take my gun to respond to a knock? Of course not, but the thoughts come anyway. I hear a noise. Is some- one breaking in? Where is the gun? It's in the closet. Could I get it in time? Could I shoot it? Right now, at Monk's Alibi Club, I'm about to. And I'm sure it will blow up in my hands. I will stand like Wile E. Coyote, my face blackened and dismantled, falling to the ground like chunks of ice: nose, eyes, chin, mouth. We talk weaponry as we wait for the strag- glers to show up. Cindy Armstrong, who had to give up bow-hunting when back problems meant she could no longer pull a compound bow, has a Ruger. I tell her I have a Taurus. She groans. "We're sorry," she says. John Jenkins of Kentucky Personal Defense Training breaks up our chatter. "Can I have my frst fve ladies?" he says. Jenkins, 35, is the host and instructor of the Ladies Shoot. He is not what I pictured. When I spoke to him on the phone, he mentioned performing person- al protection overseas, "like bodyguard-type stuf." He didn't want to go into detail, which made it all a bit James Bond. So I expected cool sophistication — or at least really nice clothing. But Jenkins gives of more of a khaki-clad teddy-bear vibe. I'm sure this description won't please him. His Facebook page shows him dressed in dirty combat fatigues gripping what looks like an AR or maybe a machine gun. His face is a faded splotch of camoufage goop. A string of (real?) ivy dangles from his hat. It's his class photo for an advanced tactical training course. But he smiles a lot among us ladies. He makes an efort to put us at ease. Even the blue tattoo fames that shoot up his arm from his watchband look friendly. I trot up to a line of blue man targets with the frst group of shooters. Let's get this over with. Jenkins has us stand just seven feet away from our targets. Even I can hit something from this distance. He explains that most de- fense situations take place at a range of seven to 12 feet. I picture my living room, my bedroom, my mattress. Jenkins' stepfather, Dennis Craven, stands at my end of the line, observing. I see on his cap that he's an NRA range ofcer. I am pleased to be beside someone who knows things. I'm ner-