When I was a youngster, my Dad took me out to a wattle grove that grew out along a ridge in front of the old house, and taught me to shoot with a .22 rifle.  He coached me slowly, and with great patience, teaching me about stance, and nestling of the rifle butt into my shoulder. He cautioned me about the position of my cheek, too close to the rifle.  Then he folded his hankie, and put it up on a tree nearby as a target.  I hit it on the first shot. Praising me, he proceeded to fold the