Introduction
A few days ago I posted a rather lengthy article concerning the 'gun controversy' embroiling the America. As you might expect, with such an emotion laden issue, I got a lot of comments. What surpised me however, was that the subject that got the most comment was my recounting a personal experience involving a hand gun. As a result I have extracted that portion of the longer article and re-posted it here so that readers who are interested do not have to plow through the entire article to read it.
The entire original post, "The United States - A Nation in Shock."follows at the end of this exerpt. I welcome your comments.
A Personal Experience To Add Perspective
I would like to pass on to you a personal experience with guns, specifically a hand gun. And I do so only because I think it illustrates how complicated this problem is, even in some ways at the personal level.
I grew up with guns. My father's family migrated to Kansas City when he was a teenager from the boondocks of the Arkansas Ozark mountains. In that environment a shotgun was a household staple, part of their life. They hunted wildlife and often kept the shotgun on the plow as the were working in the fields in case they jumped a deer or a covey of quail.
I started hunting with my father at an early age – well, actually walking the fields with him before I was old enough to carry a firearm. My first gun was a .410, single shot shotgun given to me by my father as a birthday gift – I was 12. Up through my early 20s when I went in the USAF, I was a hunter and progressed through several shotguns.
I joined the NRA with a hunting buddy when I was about 18, not because of any political motivation, but primarily to get their magazine. I also bought from them by mail
order an Army issue Colt 45 automatic for 'home protection'. I purchased that specific gun because I felt it was safe to have around the house. With a 'click-click' it could be dis-assemble and the three major parts stored safely side-by-side on a shelf. That is primarily because, even through it could be assembled in the same quick click-click manner in case of emergency, a person not familiar with that gun would never figure it out. And even if they did stumble through that process, the ammo would be in the clip not in the chamber ready to fire. To prepare it to fire was another test for the uninitiated due to built-in safety features.
In the early 1970s I was transferred to Hawaii and left the gun in storage in the U.S. Because of the administrative hassle of shipping a weapon in your household good. One weekday after noon I happened to be at home, and I suddenly heard my three grade school daughters coming down the street screaming bloody murder in terror. The kind of terror that would have triggered a 'click-click' if that gun had been available. But I ran to the back door knowing the girls would come through the back fence gate there. I met them and managed to determine through their hysterical jabbering that "that man was chasing them trying to hurt them". As I shooed them in the door and picked up the baseball bat I kept next to the back door (for other purposes), 'the man' burst through the back gate. He was big, maybe 5'10'' and a massive build, maybe 225 pounds. Screaming incomprehensibly his face contorted in rage, he was carrying a length of chain, the ends of which were wrapped around his hands in such a way that the rest of the chain was an obvious garotte weapon – he was about to strangle someone!
Adrenalin rushing I stepped towards him intent on disabling him the best I could with the only weapon I had. At that point he dropped to the ground on his hands and knees and began to sob uncontrollably and the only word I could understand was 'Ben'. And at that point I realized who I was dealing with. This was the mentally challenged boy that lived someplace in the neighborhood. You would see him occasionally walking down the street but I had never taken a good look at him (don't want to stare). The only way I knew it was him was his mother dressed him in denim bib overalls (probably the only overalls in Hawaii) so he would stand out and people would realize he had problems. Thanks goodness his mother had heard the commotion and showed up about that time to 'rescue' him, apologizing profusely for my trouble.
I shook uncontrollably for about an hour and could hardly catch me breath. I was so upset because I knew if my trusty.45 automatic had been in my house, that boy would have been a goner – a 13-year old 'monster dead (Yes, he was only 13) because he was looking for help getting his dog (Ben) back on the chain leash. And I had been to all the firearms training, including courses where you 'walked a street' and learned with pop-up targets to quickly identify who to shoot and who not to. And how to shoot to disable and not kill. But I knew in my heart with the adrenaline rushing and my perception that my kids where in danger, that kid would have been a 'goner'.
I don't know if I would have gone to jail or not. I do know I would have had to live with that the rest of my life. I still shudder when this incident comes to mind. When I returned to the U.S. A couple of years later I did two things. 1.) The NRA had turned into a political organization (maybe they always were and I wasn't aware), so I resigned my membership, and 2.) I went to the household goods storage place and took the gun to the police station where I turned it in.
Till Next Time. Pura Vida.