Ready, Aim, Fire!

Byline: David Ray

Growing up in Portland, Oregon, my kids spent rainy afternoons playing at Burger King. For $1 they could climb around in a plastic "fun house," all soft padding and colored balls of spongy foam, disinfected with the same stuff BK uses to clean its "kitchen." Immunized against risk, I could relax while my kids burned off their chicken nuggets.

We Americans are obsessed with safety. We put locks on kitchen cabinets to save our kids from taking shots of Mr. Clean, buckle them into elaborately padded car seats and instruct them not to talk to strangers. If my kids were invited to a play date across the street, I'd call the parents and (jokingly, except not) ask if they happened to keep an AK-47 in the house. Our cardinal rule: no guns! Not even the sort that squirted water, on pain of confiscation of dessert forever.

I thought I had their safety assured--until we moved to the south of France. That summer I signed up my 6- and 8-year-olds for a week of day camp at the Ecole des Champs, imagining them learning to play tennis, milk a cow and float on their backs. Never having been to camp myself, I was eager to hear all about it when I picked them up each day. Basket weaving? That sounds fun. Swimming lessons? Excellent. Tir a la carbine? I beg your pardon?

As I looked in my rearview mirror, my jaw dropped. Shiny medals hung from their necks. Prizes, they exclaimed, and proudly showed me the holes in their paper targets--real holes made by real bullets fired from real rifles. "They told me to aim high and prepare for the kick," said my daughter insouciantly. Where were the permission slips to sign before my kids locked and loaded?

Naturally, my wife and I were horrified. I flashed a help e-mail to a friend who hunts geese in ...