Not now, no. I've got plenty of guns that are easier to live with, nowadays.
However, my very first CCW had a 6" tube. I was nineteen at the time, and working night shift, alone, at a convenience store right off the highway. You know, the kind of place the tactically aware call a "Stop and Rob." When my grandfather heard about my new job, he went upstairs to his gun cabinet, and came down with a bundle.
"C'mon, boy," he said, and led the way out to his old jeep pickup. He drove his out of town, to the backyard of the American Legion, where we went to shoot.
When he unwrapped the bundle, it turned out to be his one and only centerfire handgun, a gorgeous mint condition late fifties S&W Model 14 Target Masterpiece, with a 6" barrel, in .38 Special. He handed it to me and said, "Boy, I want you to have this, on three conditions. One, you promise to keep it loaded, and keep it on you when you're at that job of yours. Two, you don't tell your grandmother where you're working, or what you're carrying. Three, you learn to use it."
We tackled number three that day. I'd been shooting shotguns and rifles since I was little, but the only pistol I'd shot was my dad's High Standard .22 target pistol, that always jammed about every third round. First he taught me something close to the Weaver Stance. Then the basic trick of controlling a double action trigger, ie, to squeeze through in smooth, controlled way, and then also to release it under control, rather than just jump off of it. He had me practice that dry, while he drank about four beers. Eventually, when I could stroke the trigger and hold the gun more or less still, we started with ammunition. I shot one cylinder at paper, he adjusted the sights for me, and one more group confirmed that Smith, Wesson, and I were ready to work together.
For the next 188 rounds, he had me chase his beer cans around. He'd shoot it with his "Constant Companion," (a little .22 snub,) and set it dancing, and I was supposed to hit it. This, as you may imagine, was a little frustrating for a first exercise, but whenever I'd whine, "But Gramps, what am I doing wrong," he'd give me The Look, and say, "It doesn't really matter how you did it wrong, does it? Here's how you do it right. Do that. Don't worry about the other."
Some time later, when I thought my finger was about to fall off, we went into the Legion, and he bought me a beer. The bartender asked if I was old enough, (I wasn't,) but he just said, "Now Rhonda, the boy just got his first pistol. Of course he is."
This being back in the prudent man days, before Ohio had CCW permits, there wasn't much leather or know how about carrying around. What I knew about how to carry a gun came from TV, and that basically meant shoulder holsters. Fortunately, that's not actually a bad method for a gun that size. After some digging, I found a nylon vertical shoulder rig, probably built for hunting or other field use. It actually worked fairly well, though, as it had big broad straps, and also snapped to the belt to help with stabilization and weight distribution. Worn over my uniform shirt, and topped with a flannel shirt, unbuttoned and untucked, I looked like a perfect little grunge kid.
I carried Gramps' gun for probably eight months, until I started to notice how the beautiful pristine finish was wearing. In an effort to save it, I decided to replace it with something a little less gorgeous and a little more compact. Since I was a little traumatized by the reliability of autos, I wanted to stick with revolvers. Also, by this time, I was starting to get reasonably decent with one. So it was that I scrimped and saved $300, and headed to the next gun show, looking for a snub. Unfortunately, the chiefs and dicks were all $500-600, way more than I could swing without trading the Masterpiece, which I wasn't about to do. I kept looking, trying to find another option. Then I found a table stacked full of raggedy looking revolvers. On closer inspection, they were police trades. I fondled probably half a hundred of them, before settling on a four inch Model 10, late of Memphis, for $185. I even had enough left over for some less ugly grips and a better shoulder rig. That was almost the end of my long barrel days, except for one odd chapter a few years later.
This was still prudent man times, not. EDC, so after I left that job, I didn't carry regularly. However, I did like to keep the option available so when leaving on a trip, I'd generally grab my pistol case and ammo can to take along. Should a situation arise that would justify a prudent man in going armed, I could load up. Anyhow, such a situation did arise. I found myself needing to track down an elusive address on foot in one of Cincinnati's worst areas, at about 2 AM. I got my boxes out, and found that, although I had several pistols, and several different kinds of ammo, none of it matched. Eventually, I found that I had one box of .44 Special, which would fit my Super Blackhawk. That's the only piece I could load, but it has a 7.5"' barrel. My eventual solution was to stick it in the inside breast pocket of my leather jacket.
The end.
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