4 New Experiences

Well, this has been a big week. I grew up with guns in the house, but I steered very clear of them. My only contact with guns was when my dad had me hold his shotgun, which was in a stretchy nylon snake-like sheath. I carefully hoisted the heavy weapon in order to carefully keep it from touching the ground while my dad stopped through the barbed wire fence between the parking area and the lake at which the men (and only men) were duck hunting. I was the only girl, but I was enough of a tomboy that I fit in, and for me the trip meant doughnuts and chocolate milk at Doughnut Hole in the wee hours of the morning. It meant spending time around cool, but well-disciplined black labs, the chance to catch a frog or salamander, and the glimmering wings of mallard ducks that shimmered blue and green on the windowsill in my bedroom. The only other time I was really around guns was when my dad took me with him to the trap shooting club, but I was only a young observer. Frankly, guns scared me far more than they intrigued me.

So, back to the present -- I am a fairly liberal democrat who has decorated her Honda Civic's bumper with an Obama sticker. I don't necessarily have a problem with the 2nd Amendment and my fellow citizens' right to bear arms, but I also have no problem with strict gun control laws. If you want a gun for hunting, target shooting, or protecting your family, you should be able to get one, but you should be a stable law-abiding individual, too. And if people start getting all worked up and demanding that their 2nd Amendment rights be respected, I remind them that their right to bear arms was originally granted in order for the colonists to defend themselves against the British. The last time I worried about needing to defend myself against a British invasion was . . .

So, how did I find myself standing at the Cabela's gun counter? Why is it that my husband needed to explain the difference between .22 and .22 mags? Yup, you guessed it -- I bought a gun. I -- bought -- a -- gun. The competitive side of me wants to end up having the greatest natural gift of accuracy ever. The adventurous outdoor side of wants to know that if I'm ever lost at 10,000 feet I'd be able to shoot a rabbit and eat it to survive. The bold, barely-a-risk-taker side wants to wield that weapon simply because I can and because it took a moment of courageous daring to just do it.