DAVIDSDIVAD
member
They're a ton of fun to shoot when you're with friends.
Why Do You Own Guns?
- Thread starter BigGuy52
- Start date
- Status
Deltaboy1984
Member
Pest Control, Hunting, target shooting, Personal and Property protection Grew up with guns and think of them as Tools in the Tool Box. 
Millwright
Member
Because I can't afford the cars I want '!! >MW
Ed Ames
Member
Considering that's a semi-auto one wonders where the slide would go.
c919
Member
hmmmmmmm......
because they shoot bullets.
because they shoot bullets.
theotherwaldo
Member
To maintain my rights, to defend those around me, to keep my options open, and because firearms intrigue, and, to a certain extent, frighten me.
I must investigate, study, and eventually master whatever frightens me.
I must investigate, study, and eventually master whatever frightens me.
NotSoFast
Member
Because I can and because there are people who are trying to say I can't.
PA Freedom
Member
To protect my country, my son, my friends, and myself. To the absolute best of my ability.
flrfh213
Member
i couldnt think of a good reason not to have several guns...
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yakkingallover
Member
I can't afford a tank....Also this is still America for now, and I never got used to the idea of bowing....
yeti
Member
I don't own any guns, but quite a few rely on me to care for them.
For me, it's like asking "why do you eat breakfast every day?" They've always been a solemn yet natural part of my life growing up. Even back when my parents first started out on their own with only 3 guns. A 20ga single action that my dad had since he was a kid, a .22 magnum revolver my mom got him when they were first married, and a .25ACP he bought for her after a drunk man in the middle of the road tried to scare her out of her car on her way to work. Those were the only firearms we had for years, and I only saw 'em come out on certain occasions. We were a wild lil' bunch of tykes, my brothers and I. And we were home all the time. Mum and Dad sacrificed to homeschool all of us boys in our little built-on doublewide on a coupla acres in the middle of their (and our) hillbillyish hometown.
As wild as our childishness may have been, however, it couldn't compare to the rowdiness of our nearby neighbors. They hated us- no, let me correct that; they hated everyone with a passion. Even each other. The screaming, the fighting, the drinking... it was all the time. Mum, pregnant with my youngest brother, once went out to get laundry that was hanging out to dry, only to find that it had been smeared with dog crap. She found more lumps of it rolled down the bank that seperated our property from the neighbors. Daytime, nighttime. It didn't matter. It was always on our parent’s minds and we knew it. Another time I remember in particular... I awoke to the sound of Dad yelling the name of one of said roudy neighbors from our back door, and hysterical screaming from multiple individuals outside. I ran from my bed to find him and Mum standing, peering through the cracked back door. He had his revolver, my first memory of ever seeing it, wooden hilt sticking from its army camouflage holster. The neighbors had gotten drunk or high, or both, and were standing on the bank. Some of them had pellet guns. My dad had recently placed an overhead camera and a motion light to watch the back yard for the devils. They were apparently irate at this, and were screaming at my parents to turn the light and the camera off. He refused and they had fired shots at it, screaming death threats all the while, leering and threatening to fly off the edge of the bank. My mother saw me coming down the hall, staring wide-eyed. She grabbed me just as I got a peek outside, and rushed me back into my room where she stayed with us. My dad slammed the door, got on the phone and explained to the police what was happening. The operator claimed that there was nothing they could do, as long as the aggressors were on their own property. Dad then explained hurriedly that he did not want to kill one of them, but that he would be waiting by that back door all night. If one came in, he was going to shoot. The operator stuttered that he could do no such thing. Dad said that he most certainly could and would, so they'd better send a squad car now or later. After a while the ruffians calmed down and retreated to their own property, but not before Dad paced the living room and kitcken, revolver in hand, waiting for the police to arrive. The finally did. But not before the situation had already settled. I don't remember seeing much of the revolver after that experience.
Another time, Dad was away and my brothers were outside riding trikes. They suddenly came running and yelling. The neighbors nasty and abused rotty had gotten loose from his chain and had chased them. I remember mum retrieving the pocket automatic .25 from underneath her mattress and sticking it in her pocket. She told us to stay put inside, and went out to see about the mangey mutt. She disappeared around the trailer as us four worried, faces pressed against the window screens. We jumped as a shot rang out, and I immediately turned around and headed for the gun cabinet where I retrieved and loaded the only gun I knew how to use; the Daisy .177. I returned to the porch and found Mum coming up the steps. Unable to find the dog, she had removed the magazine and expended the chambered round. Much to my relief, though I was at the ready to "assist" in whatever way a 7 or 8 year old with a pellet gun could.
Time went by, and Dad acquired a lever-action 30-30 in exchange for some work he had done. He used it some time afterward to kill a rabid fox that had been trolling the property for a few days. At this point my curiosity of firearms got the best of me, and Dad decided it was time for me to see what a gun could do. He took us to a piece of property he’d purchased, and brought along the rifle, shotgun, and some filled water jugs. He fired each of them into the jugs, and showed us the aftermath. Then he told us to imagine that the jugs were living, breathing people. Guns were not toys but serious tools with no room left for kidding around, he explained, and that they were only to be used if we were in immediate danger. He left us to consider that for some time before actually allowing us to fire them.
Some time later, prompted by a growing family and our neighbors’ violence, Dad began building a house not too far from where he'd shot the jugs. It took him three years to complete, oftentimes building and constructing on his own. After running off some ruffians on ATV's (another set of incidences that caused my mother to wear the revolver on her side for a while) we spent what I remember as a few of the most peaceful years of our lives in our new home, though our lives have never been without drama (even then we were caught in a battle with a corrupt auctioneer who’d sold our property).
Those were the good ol' days. Some time later, my uncle sold me a 30-30 "just like dad's" for $160. My first "real" gun and the most expensive thing I'd ever bought. Plus the only debt I'd ever had to work to pay off. Then for Christmas one year, Dad gave me a Mossberg 500 20ga shotgun, my little brothers Henry .22 repeaters, and Mum a .22 automatic to replace the unpredictable .25. A good friend of the family started taking me squirrel hunting, as dad had never been much into hunting though he took me once. Then, a year or so ago, I began getting interested in pistol carry and began to research what requirements needed to be met to be allowed to do it. I filled my parents in and finally talked them into acquiring theirs, though mom had already applied once and had never received anything back.
The apps came through and they've been legally carrying ever since. However, they've now become more properly "educated" on firearms for self-defense and carry more appropriate tools.
Sorry to be long-winded, but I enjoyed the retelling of my family’s past of firearms. They hopefully always will be a part of our normal, everyday lives, as they have been for as long as I can remember. I'm going to graduate next year, and can only hope to further the tradition of protection that my parents and gram and pap (got some stories there too!!) began for my family someday.
As to why we own the guns? Well, all that I mentioned before has the potential to happen again in different forms and breeds, and it has visited us yet again and again since those days.
Always be prepared. We always have been. Always will be.
As wild as our childishness may have been, however, it couldn't compare to the rowdiness of our nearby neighbors. They hated us- no, let me correct that; they hated everyone with a passion. Even each other. The screaming, the fighting, the drinking... it was all the time. Mum, pregnant with my youngest brother, once went out to get laundry that was hanging out to dry, only to find that it had been smeared with dog crap. She found more lumps of it rolled down the bank that seperated our property from the neighbors. Daytime, nighttime. It didn't matter. It was always on our parent’s minds and we knew it. Another time I remember in particular... I awoke to the sound of Dad yelling the name of one of said roudy neighbors from our back door, and hysterical screaming from multiple individuals outside. I ran from my bed to find him and Mum standing, peering through the cracked back door. He had his revolver, my first memory of ever seeing it, wooden hilt sticking from its army camouflage holster. The neighbors had gotten drunk or high, or both, and were standing on the bank. Some of them had pellet guns. My dad had recently placed an overhead camera and a motion light to watch the back yard for the devils. They were apparently irate at this, and were screaming at my parents to turn the light and the camera off. He refused and they had fired shots at it, screaming death threats all the while, leering and threatening to fly off the edge of the bank. My mother saw me coming down the hall, staring wide-eyed. She grabbed me just as I got a peek outside, and rushed me back into my room where she stayed with us. My dad slammed the door, got on the phone and explained to the police what was happening. The operator claimed that there was nothing they could do, as long as the aggressors were on their own property. Dad then explained hurriedly that he did not want to kill one of them, but that he would be waiting by that back door all night. If one came in, he was going to shoot. The operator stuttered that he could do no such thing. Dad said that he most certainly could and would, so they'd better send a squad car now or later. After a while the ruffians calmed down and retreated to their own property, but not before Dad paced the living room and kitcken, revolver in hand, waiting for the police to arrive. The finally did. But not before the situation had already settled. I don't remember seeing much of the revolver after that experience.
Another time, Dad was away and my brothers were outside riding trikes. They suddenly came running and yelling. The neighbors nasty and abused rotty had gotten loose from his chain and had chased them. I remember mum retrieving the pocket automatic .25 from underneath her mattress and sticking it in her pocket. She told us to stay put inside, and went out to see about the mangey mutt. She disappeared around the trailer as us four worried, faces pressed against the window screens. We jumped as a shot rang out, and I immediately turned around and headed for the gun cabinet where I retrieved and loaded the only gun I knew how to use; the Daisy .177. I returned to the porch and found Mum coming up the steps. Unable to find the dog, she had removed the magazine and expended the chambered round. Much to my relief, though I was at the ready to "assist" in whatever way a 7 or 8 year old with a pellet gun could.
Time went by, and Dad acquired a lever-action 30-30 in exchange for some work he had done. He used it some time afterward to kill a rabid fox that had been trolling the property for a few days. At this point my curiosity of firearms got the best of me, and Dad decided it was time for me to see what a gun could do. He took us to a piece of property he’d purchased, and brought along the rifle, shotgun, and some filled water jugs. He fired each of them into the jugs, and showed us the aftermath. Then he told us to imagine that the jugs were living, breathing people. Guns were not toys but serious tools with no room left for kidding around, he explained, and that they were only to be used if we were in immediate danger. He left us to consider that for some time before actually allowing us to fire them.
Some time later, prompted by a growing family and our neighbors’ violence, Dad began building a house not too far from where he'd shot the jugs. It took him three years to complete, oftentimes building and constructing on his own. After running off some ruffians on ATV's (another set of incidences that caused my mother to wear the revolver on her side for a while) we spent what I remember as a few of the most peaceful years of our lives in our new home, though our lives have never been without drama (even then we were caught in a battle with a corrupt auctioneer who’d sold our property).
Those were the good ol' days. Some time later, my uncle sold me a 30-30 "just like dad's" for $160. My first "real" gun and the most expensive thing I'd ever bought. Plus the only debt I'd ever had to work to pay off. Then for Christmas one year, Dad gave me a Mossberg 500 20ga shotgun, my little brothers Henry .22 repeaters, and Mum a .22 automatic to replace the unpredictable .25. A good friend of the family started taking me squirrel hunting, as dad had never been much into hunting though he took me once. Then, a year or so ago, I began getting interested in pistol carry and began to research what requirements needed to be met to be allowed to do it. I filled my parents in and finally talked them into acquiring theirs, though mom had already applied once and had never received anything back.
The apps came through and they've been legally carrying ever since. However, they've now become more properly "educated" on firearms for self-defense and carry more appropriate tools.
Sorry to be long-winded, but I enjoyed the retelling of my family’s past of firearms. They hopefully always will be a part of our normal, everyday lives, as they have been for as long as I can remember. I'm going to graduate next year, and can only hope to further the tradition of protection that my parents and gram and pap (got some stories there too!!) began for my family someday.
As to why we own the guns? Well, all that I mentioned before has the potential to happen again in different forms and breeds, and it has visited us yet again and again since those days.
Always be prepared. We always have been. Always will be.
Last edited:
Wildyams
Member
I think that means you need more?
I own guns because I had worked around them and helped sell them for years, and i figured i'd make a much better salesman if i actually owned a few.
enfield303
Member
I can't believe nobody has stated the best reason of all. Those pesky Zombies!!!
dkk73
Member
I like Prophet's reply best, because it was most personal and least pithy.
It's not original, but it's basic for me: To protect the lives and human rights of my family and community.
I don't much care if my reasons and lifestyle are cool to either The Right or The Left... Seems like we try to make everything into a big religious or philosophical testimonial. I would think many of us have the same basic feelings that drive these actions.
My 2 cents...
David
It's not original, but it's basic for me: To protect the lives and human rights of my family and community.
I don't much care if my reasons and lifestyle are cool to either The Right or The Left... Seems like we try to make everything into a big religious or philosophical testimonial. I would think many of us have the same basic feelings that drive these actions.
My 2 cents...
David
CoRoMo
Member
To be cool.
DHJenkins
Member
I'm a Texan. I'm supposed to.
Seriously, though - I just love them. Always have, even as a wee lad. The fit, feel, look, heft, action, etc... The only reason I don't have more is because I'm horrible with money.
Seriously, though - I just love them. Always have, even as a wee lad. The fit, feel, look, heft, action, etc... The only reason I don't have more is because I'm horrible with money.
They are fine pieces of mechanical equipment, and I admire that about them. But, the real reason is to protect my family, myself, and my principals from tyranny. Whether that tyranny is from criminals, a foreign government, or the US government.
CoRoMo
Member
If I don't exercise my 2nd Amendment Right, nobody is going to do it for me.
mljdeckard
Member
DHJenkins said he's required to, and something I had kind of forgotten, I grew up in a town that actually has a mandatory forearms ownership statute. So, 'because it's the law' as well.
runrabbitrun
member
I own guns because 10 years later..
You can still cook with them. lol
You can still cook with them. lol
DAVIDSDIVAD
member
For a more serious answer:
I think it's in my blood.
I think it's in my blood.
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