
I’ve been around guns my whole life. Growing up in Texas, guns were items nearly every household had. I owned a gun when I was thirteen; my dad got me a bolt-action .22 rifle for Christmas, because he grew up knowing how to shoot and it was expected his sons would, too. I’m sure I fired well over a thousand rounds from that as a kid, usually on visits to what had been my grandfather’s four-acre farm. Tree stumps, tin cans and pop bottles were no doubt terrorized by me. This was not the only gun in our house, either. My brother possessed a 14-gauge bolt-action shotgun and, later in his life, a semi-automatic .22 rifle. My dad always hunted with the double-barrel 12-gauge he’d had as long as I could remember. I do not remember any of us successfully bringing down any game, with the sole exception of the feast of squirrels my dad cooked for us once to let us know what kind of food he’d grown up on as a kid in the depression. All I remember of this meal is that squirrel was tasty, if unsatisfying. There’s not a lot of meat on those little fellas.
I did shoot something once. Long before I had that rifle, I used to shoot at birds with the BB gun my brother had as a kid. When I was maybe five years old, I hit one. It died gushing blood. I was mortified. It’s the last time I aimed a weapon of any sort at a living creature.
I did shoot something once. Long before I had that rifle, I used to shoot at birds with the BB gun my brother had as a kid. When I was maybe five years old, I hit one. It died gushing blood. I was mortified. It’s the last time I aimed a weapon of any sort at a living creature.

My dad taught us to have great respect for guns. That meant making sure one wasn’t loaded unless you were actually planning to use it. To this day, if I see a gun, I have an itch to remove the magazine and then check to make sure there’s not a round in the chamber. Trying to let the hammer down on a rifle once, it slipped and I almost shot my brother. That’s a memory that’s etched in my brain. Guns are dangerous. Of course, reading that, somebody’s blood pressure just shot up thirty points as they shout at their smart phone, “Guns aren’t dangerous! Only in the wrong hands are they dangerous!”
You could quote Shane on this: “A gun is a tool, Marion, no better or no worse than any other tool, an axe, a shovel or anything. A gun is as good or as bad as the man using it. Remember that.” Never mind that Shane says this and then proceeds to kill three people and get shot himself in the process. He makes a valid point. A gun in Jack Palance’s hand is bad. To make things worse, Palance carried a two gun rig.
You could quote Shane on this: “A gun is a tool, Marion, no better or no worse than any other tool, an axe, a shovel or anything. A gun is as good or as bad as the man using it. Remember that.” Never mind that Shane says this and then proceeds to kill three people and get shot himself in the process. He makes a valid point. A gun in Jack Palance’s hand is bad. To make things worse, Palance carried a two gun rig.

There’s nothing to fear from a good guy with a gun, the mantra goes. Certainly, trained professionals in the military, law enforcement, and other professions (I won’t elaborate) are necessary to protect us in dangerous times. I should know. I’ve received that training (again, use your imagination) and at one time qualified with a .38 revolver, 9mm Browning, and the M-16. Instructors at the time told us the standards they used for “qualification” were stricter than the most serious employed by any law enforcement agency in the U.S. That did not fill me with confidence about U.S. law enforcement, but I’ll leave that at, well, that.
For the M-16, by the way, qualifying meant firing ten rounds from a prone position at a 1 foot square target from a distance of 100 feet. When I examined my target, it had 19 holes in it. Turns out the trainee to my left got confused about which target was supposed to be his. The instructor qualified us both. I don’t know which one of us missed. Probably me. There’s a lesson there somewhere, I guess. Maybe something about making sure that qualified good guy with the gun knows where he’s supposed to be aiming.
Knowing where to aim is kinda important. I was in an environment once where pinheads like me were protected by security teams. These teams were made up of good guys who are highly skilled at making as sure as possible their charges don’t get killed. If you ever find yourself in such a situation, you’ll be glad to have these guys around. But, and it’s a big ‘but’, they’re still human. In this environment which will not be named, we set up a “relaxation” area at our camp. Somehow we found a couch and a couple of comfy chairs and even what passed as a coffee table. So one day I’m sitting in one of the comfy chairs when one of our security guys saunters in, unholsters his 9mm, sets it down on the table and plops onto the sofa.
I was staring right down the barrel of that gun. It bugged me. A lot. Years of hearing my father preach “never point a gun at someone unless you intend to shoot them” came back to me. I reached over and, with one finger, spun it so that it was pointing at the wall. Then, I said, calmly as I remember, “Don’t point your gun at me.”
The guy looked at me, smirked, and said nothing. The moment passed. Except the next day he did exactly the same thing. And I responded with exactly the same movement and words. But this time he had an answer. “The safety’s on.” And he managed to say these words in a manner that suggested I was not just an idiot, but a gutless one as well.
“I don’t care.” I will point out that when you’ve spent a few weeks in a place where people are shooting at each other a lot, you tend to go a little nuts. I added, for emphasis, “Don’t point your fucking gun at me.”
He glared. I glared back. This was the point where he was going to beat the crap out of me and I didn’t care because, well, I’d gone more than a little nuts and figured I could get in a few blows of my own. And then the security team chief came over and said, to my great relief, “He’s right. Don’t point your fucking gun at him. You’re supposed to know better.”
For the M-16, by the way, qualifying meant firing ten rounds from a prone position at a 1 foot square target from a distance of 100 feet. When I examined my target, it had 19 holes in it. Turns out the trainee to my left got confused about which target was supposed to be his. The instructor qualified us both. I don’t know which one of us missed. Probably me. There’s a lesson there somewhere, I guess. Maybe something about making sure that qualified good guy with the gun knows where he’s supposed to be aiming.
Knowing where to aim is kinda important. I was in an environment once where pinheads like me were protected by security teams. These teams were made up of good guys who are highly skilled at making as sure as possible their charges don’t get killed. If you ever find yourself in such a situation, you’ll be glad to have these guys around. But, and it’s a big ‘but’, they’re still human. In this environment which will not be named, we set up a “relaxation” area at our camp. Somehow we found a couch and a couple of comfy chairs and even what passed as a coffee table. So one day I’m sitting in one of the comfy chairs when one of our security guys saunters in, unholsters his 9mm, sets it down on the table and plops onto the sofa.
I was staring right down the barrel of that gun. It bugged me. A lot. Years of hearing my father preach “never point a gun at someone unless you intend to shoot them” came back to me. I reached over and, with one finger, spun it so that it was pointing at the wall. Then, I said, calmly as I remember, “Don’t point your gun at me.”
The guy looked at me, smirked, and said nothing. The moment passed. Except the next day he did exactly the same thing. And I responded with exactly the same movement and words. But this time he had an answer. “The safety’s on.” And he managed to say these words in a manner that suggested I was not just an idiot, but a gutless one as well.
“I don’t care.” I will point out that when you’ve spent a few weeks in a place where people are shooting at each other a lot, you tend to go a little nuts. I added, for emphasis, “Don’t point your fucking gun at me.”
He glared. I glared back. This was the point where he was going to beat the crap out of me and I didn’t care because, well, I’d gone more than a little nuts and figured I could get in a few blows of my own. And then the security team chief came over and said, to my great relief, “He’s right. Don’t point your fucking gun at him. You’re supposed to know better.”

Yes, we’re supposed to know better. Guns are tools, not objects of worship. None of my father’s friends nor any of my grandfather’s rural neighbors “collected” guns. They had them to hunt and to protect their property, and that threat was primarily of the animal kind. My dad used to tell a story of killing a rattlesnake that bit his dog. He killed it, by the way, with a stick. Had anyone suggested to my father or grandfather that they should sling a rifle over their shoulder when going to town to buy supplies in order to “make a point,” they’d have thought the person crazy.
I’ve also spent a significant portion of my life writing about countries where the proliferation of military armaments led to utter devastation. It is an understandable human impulse when society around you seems to be collapsing to arm yourself. The result is an armed population and even more violence. It’s a downward spiral that is almost impossible to arrest. Towns in the American West, as a friend on Facebook recently noted, eventually realized this and passed ordinances against open carry. People felt safer when the only guy packing a six-shooter was the town Marshall.
I still know people who own guns. Some of them do so because they’ve had training in the military or elsewhere and believe their families are safer if they have the capability to defend their homes. Others have almost no firearms safety experience. I shudder to think these people are driving around armed. I would prefer to live someplace where the only folks who are packing heat are highly-trained professionals who have undergone some form of psychological screening, like those guys on those security teams I mentioned.
And, still, I don’t want them pointing their guns at me.
David
I’ve also spent a significant portion of my life writing about countries where the proliferation of military armaments led to utter devastation. It is an understandable human impulse when society around you seems to be collapsing to arm yourself. The result is an armed population and even more violence. It’s a downward spiral that is almost impossible to arrest. Towns in the American West, as a friend on Facebook recently noted, eventually realized this and passed ordinances against open carry. People felt safer when the only guy packing a six-shooter was the town Marshall.
I still know people who own guns. Some of them do so because they’ve had training in the military or elsewhere and believe their families are safer if they have the capability to defend their homes. Others have almost no firearms safety experience. I shudder to think these people are driving around armed. I would prefer to live someplace where the only folks who are packing heat are highly-trained professionals who have undergone some form of psychological screening, like those guys on those security teams I mentioned.
And, still, I don’t want them pointing their guns at me.
David