Had a dirt floor, stone walls, and a separate root cellar that you entered through an ancient wooden door, wherein could be found a giant hanging bin full of decidedly unappetizing potatoes. Ours was an unreconstituted cellar of the old school, and no attempt was ever made to transform it into a clean, well-lighted game room with padded leather wet bar, thank god. The walls still bore the peace-and-love slogans that brother Dave--this was during his short-lived Davey Love fop period--spray-painted onto them some time at the dawn of the seventies, and the old man's seabag still hung from one of the stout round wooden pillars that kept the ceiling up. It wasn't good for much, that cellar, except shooting guns off in. That cellar was a great place for taking target practice. The reports were loud, the shadows added an extra level of complication, and as for the ricochet factor off those rough stone walls, well, it kept you on your toes.