My parents were not gun people...not ANTI either, but we didn't have a lot of guns, although there was an old, frozen up SxS with hammers in our basement that I used to love to open up and look at. Our home and livlihood were at a beach resort in NJ, but we spent part of our winters at a small home in the eastern edge of Mesa, AZ. It was a small development of CMU houses with dirt streets, and across the street from my home to the north was desert. Nothing but, and plenty of it.
That is where I learned to shoot at 10 years old from my 10 year old friend, Randy. His dad was a big gun guy, a reloader, etc. He would give Randy a couple of guns to take me out in the desert to shoot. We had rules of course, his dad went over all the safety stuff, and Randy was very safe and knew a LOT about shooting. We had a blast. My favorite memory is shooting a .22 pistol at a fleeing jackrabbit...a hopeless proposition for such a crappy shooter as myself, but it was thrilling. And man, those things are tall and can run!
Good memories and a part of a great childhood.