“Before I got married I had six theories about raising children; now, I have six children and no theories.” — John Wilmot

He steadied the muzzleloader on the rest and peered down the sight, aiming as I had for the foam squirrel hanging downrange about 20 yards.

He’s obsessed with form.

He’s that way about everything: soccer, golf, running, weightlifting, everything. He wants to do things correctly, so he concentrates on positioning his body, stressing over getting every muscle to move the way it ought to move to expertly execute whatever task he faces.

So he did as we’d been instructed, taking in a breath, exhaling halfway, holding it. He squeezed — not pulled, not jerked, but squeezed — the trigger.

Big bang. Lots of smoke. Little recoil.

Miss.

I still couldn’t imagine being prouder.

My 15-year-old son, Mason, and I just finished hunters safety class.

I took the class as a boy — age 12 or so — but I never got a hunting license. Lots of reasons why, but mainly because my stepfather got busy with other things and never took me out.

As I got older, my own things got in the way, and I never got around to hunting.

So I had to retake the class so I can get a license this firearm deer season.

My son’s never hunted, either, but he wants to go this season, too.

So we both took the class offered last week by the Alpena Sportsmen’s Club.

The class involved three days of classroom instruction by Sportsmen’s Club volunteers, by a Michigan State Police trooper, by Michigan Department of Natural Resources conservation officers, and by a DNR biologist. Then a written test. Then a field day during which we had the chance to shoot five rounds from a .22, one arrow from a compound bow, one arrow from a crossbow, one round from a muzzleloader, and two rounds from a shotgun.

I loved watching Mason work.

He’s meticulous in everything he does.

On the first day of class, we each received a booklet on hunting and firearm safety and other basics. During the classroom instruction, the teachers asked us to highlight several things in the booklet that would later show up on the test. Mason frequently doublechecked with me to make sure he’d highlighted the right stuff, right down to the punctuation.

Mason and I each earned a 100% on the test.

But Mason really shined on field day.

With every weapon, he strove for perfection. He worked the action how it was supposed to be worked, eyed down the sight the way you’re supposed to eye down the sight, breathed just so, squeezed the trigger just right.

He did fairly well with the bows, went two-for-two shooting hanging clay targets with a .410 shotgun, and punctured a nice cluster near the bullseye with the .22. The muzzleloader was his only complete miss, which he chalked up to overcompensating for an expected big recoil from the noisy firearm.

I admire my son.

He’s just 15 and already surpassed me in plenty of ways. He’s a better athlete than me. He’s better with technology than me. He’s much better at making friends than I ever was. He does a better job keeping his cool. We found out recently in Mackinaw City he can throw an axe just a bit better than I can.

But that’s the point of it all, isn’t it?

We try to raise our kids to be better than we are, to live better lives, more successful lives. We want them to avoid all of our mistakes while reaping every reward we could never claim for ourselves. We want them to be better versions of us.

In that hunters safety class, I saw my son well on his way to all of that, and it warmed my heart.

This fall, we will sit in the woods and we will wait and we won’t talk much to not scare off the deer.

But, hopefully, he’ll feel all the things I know I’ll feel, that it’s good just to be near him and to watch him study the trees and mentally prepare himself for the shot.

If we get the chance, I know he’ll make a good shot and he’ll probably take the deer.

I’ll be proud of him when that happens.

But I’m already proud of him now.

Justin A. Hinkley can be reached at 989-354-3112 or jhinkley@thealpenanews.com. Follow him on Twitter @JustinHinkley.