"A gun is a tool. It's as good or as bad as the person using it." My grandfather didn't say that, but he might well have. It's actually a line from the movie "Shane", but it pretty much sums up my grandfather's attitude towards firearms. I've mentioned him and his attitudes about gun safety and what he taught us in comments on other diaries, and in light of recent discussions about such things I thought I might elaborate on it a bit. (below the orange swirly)
Grandfather was born in 1878 in Webster Groves, Missouri, which was not the city it is now. His father suffered from depression and frequently went on long trips, which at that time was thought of as a sort of "cure", and his mother taught school to support the family. Grandfather and his brother did go to school, of course, but outside of school and chores they lived a sort of Huck Finn boyhood along the river, and they contributed to the family table by fishing and hunting. Although he was the younger of the two, Grandfather was allowed to have a rifle first because his older brother was possessed of a quick hot temper and was considered not mature or reliable enough to have one. He became a crack shot and supplied many a bird for the table. He continued to enjoy hunting for many years, mostly for birds, squirrels, and waterfowl.
Fast forward a few years. Grandfather attended Centre College, graduating in 1900, and after that, studied law the old fashioned way, "reading law" in the office of an older, experienced lawyer until he felt ready to pass the bar. He married and started a family (my mother was the youngest of three, their "surprise baby", born in 1918) and they settled in southwest Missouri. Sometime along in the 1920s, I believe, around the beginning of the Depression or perhaps even earlier, lawyering was becoming more than a little unprofitable, and Grandfather became a lawman. I'm not completely clear on the time frame and dates, but he served as a federal marshal and spent considerable time out chasing moonshiners and bank robbers. I believe it was during this time that he met the gentleman we kids were taught to call "Uncle Jake", who would be his best friend and sometime boss for the rest of their lives.
By the time I knew him, Grandfather had settled down into the comfortable life of a small-town lawyer in a town where your status might be measured by how long it took you to walk home from work, since everyone had to come out and speak to you. He was, at various times, a deputy sheriff, a judge, and a county prosecutor. Uncle Jake came around frequently and we kids were in awe of him--a tall (to us, anyway) soft-spoken man in a gray fedora, with a revolver on his hip. It was that gun that fascinated us. One of my brothers once reached out and touched it, as I remember. Well, almost touched it. Uncle Jake sidestepped and said, "You don't want to do that!" He smiled, but we knew he was serious.
Which brings me around to the guns. Our house did not have guns. My father did not like them, his family had never had them around, and therefore, we did not have them. My brothers had cap guns, of course--what little boy in the 1950s didn't--but even those were not exactly held in favor by Dad. But Grandfather had guns. Several. He had his hunting rifles, and he had the weapons he'd carried as a marshal and deputy, all of which he kept cleaned and oiled and in good condition…and unloaded and locked up out of reach of young ones. I can remember him taking a rifle down once and inspecting it for some reason. I remember how he handled it, carefully and with great respect, pointing it away from everyone. "Always," he said, "always, children, assume that every gun is loaded." Once he caught one of my brothers pointing a cap gun at the other and gave him a fearful dressing down, the substance of which was that you never even pretend to point a weapon at someone else. We were not even allowed to point our fingers at one another and shout "bang!" "You never point a gun at anyone or anything unless you intend to kill," he said. And when he said that, he was serious and grave. I have never forgotten those lessons.
I don't have anything against guns. I recognize that they are tools, as good or as bad as the person using them. I also don't have anything against sensible regulations. I would like to see guns regulated similarly to automobiles, with proof of ability to operate, licensure, and mandatory insurance, as well as a requirement that they be safely stowed at all times. I know, in my dreams. Or in some other country, like, say, Switzerland.