�It seems to be a box of bullets,� I said removing one from the box and holding it high for all to inspect. My grandfather told me to keep unwrapping while my grandmother picked up a larger package and handed it to me. �It goes with this one,� she said. I unwrapped the package and was no less surprised to find a rifle than I had been to find the bullets moments later.
�It�s about time you had your first gun!� my grandfather said. �A boy needs only two things, a dog and a gun. You already had the dog.� The dog he referred to was named Lulu and she was the ugliest, smelliest, creature that ever there was. She was not really a dog as much as she was vaguely dog like. And truth be told, I loved Lulu they way a mother loves a child she knows will only be able to earn a living as a carnie when it comes of age.
I held the rifle up to my shoulder, just like Rambo in the movies. �Is it loaded?� I asked. I swiveled at the hips and ignored the sound of breaking glass that accompanied the acrobatics the staff and patrons of The Olive Garden as they endeavored to stay clear of the line of the barrel. I�m unclear as to exactly what was said next, but I do know that very shortly thereafter the waiter took all alcoholic drinks from the table despite our protests, and the manager asked our party to leave.
I�d never really wanted a gun. My grandfather has always been a collector and had taught us a healthy fear of the things. I had seen into his gun safe and remember being frightened by the arsenal stockpiled within. I never dreamed that he would give me one of his guns.
�This week I�ll take you to the range and teach you how to shoot the thing� he promised. �Why don�t I hold onto it until then.�
That is exactly what he did. He taught me how to care for the gun, how to clean it, how to respect it, how to aim it, how to fire it, and how to kill something in the most efficient way should I ever need to. You know, for protection or sport.
After our lessons at the shooting range, I asked my grandfather to keep my gun in his gun safe and promptly forgot about it. Every birthday until I graduated high school I received another gun from my grandparents. They beamed as I opened packages containing deadly weapons wrapped in teddy bears and birthday cakes. Every year I groaned as I added another unwanted weapon to the ever-growing pile. I finally asked them not to give me any more guns.
�I really don�t need any more� I told them. �I don�t even want them in my house. I�m not sure anyone should be allowed to keep them in a house. Who needs a gun unless you�re a cop or a soldier anyway?�
This did not sit well with my grandparents who started to suspect I was a stinking red. Soon my whole family was whispering about my distaste for weapons and wondering exactly what was wrong with me.
The answer to the question, by the way, is my mother. Last time I was home she asked me to bring her the wallet from her purse. I reached in and removed a small revolver, loaded and ready to go. I dropped it to the floor and screamed like I had been bitten.
�Careful,� she said. �You shoot the wall and you�ll be replacing the library paneling out of your savings account, little mister.�
In the years since I moved to New Jersey, my mother, who looks like a harmless, sweet, little, matronly lady, has obtained a license to carry a concealed weapon in the State of Oklahoma. She tells me she had been packing for years before they legalized the practice.
There are three requirements to obtaining such a license in Oklahoma. First, you must not be mental. Second, you must not be a convicted felon. Finally, you must pay six hundred dollars to attend a state run course about gun safety and pass the exam given at the end of the class. That�s all there is to it.
I asked my mother why she needed a concealed weapon. �Well, Brian� she was speaking as if I had asked why the sky is blue or why an insect leg still kicks when it�s been removed from the insect with a pair of tweezers. �It�s a deterrent. Bad guys won�t bother someone with a gun. I work downtown and you never know who�s gonna be lurking in the alleys down there. I gotta protect myself.�
I have a number of problems with this. First, the way my mother carries her gun. She keeps it holstered in a sturdy leather pouch that has a strap with a latch that goes over the top and keeps the gun in the holster. Then it�s in a make up bag, which she keeps in her purse.
So let�s say I�m a rapist and I come up behind my mother and I attack her. In order for her to protect herself she must open her purse, locate and unzip the make up bag, unsnap the strap on the holster, remember to take the safety off and aim. This seems like a lot of work that a big strong assailant is unlikely to just sit through.
Second, I don�t think concealed weapons are in any way a deterrent to criminals. My mother looks like your first grade teacher. Even knowing that the option of obtaining a license to pack heat is available to her, no criminal is going to actually believe she has paid her six hundred dollars to have a gun. They just won�t. The only way for my mother to carry a gun as a deterrent is for her to holster the thing on her hip and walk around the streets of Tulsa like Annie Oakley. They have to be able to see she has the ability to protect herself before any criminal would even start to rethink attacking her.
Unless, of course, I�m wrong. I wonder what a world full of pistol packing grannies would be like. Maybe I should get more sleep and spend fewer late night hours worrying about such things.
Posted at 3:41 a.m.
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