Stauffenberg
Member
...but you need to learn the rules!
My parents are, put simply, virulently anti-gun. Not in a Brady Campaign kinda way, but they don't want guns in their home, and they're utterly baffled by my fascination with weaponry (firearms first and foremost). Theirs is a polite, suburban sort of revulsion, wherein they freak at the sight of guns, even as they make it clear that they're fascinated by them.
The 'rents recently bought my grandfather's home in the Amana Colonies, as he's getting on in age and wanted to move into the city (Cedar Rapids, in this case). It's basically their vacation home right now, and an ideal place for the whole family to meet up during the holidays, as most of my clan hails from the Great State of Iowa. Naturally, I caught a flight home for Thanksgiving and stayed for a few days.
Upon awakening Friday, I went into the master bedroom to find my mother and stepfather doing their usual morning routine - laying in bed, drinking coffee, smoking Marb Lights (ya see where I get it), and horsing around with the dogs. I go have a coffee with them and have a chat, and the subject of firearms comes up.
"You know," mom said, "Your grandfather's got a bunch of guns in that closet."
... and I'm up like a shot, digging through the closet; besides the time I found his 12-guage when I was five (and put it back and slowly backed out of the room), I've never seen Grandpa's guns. I happen upon:
- a double-barrel 20 guage
- a bolt-action .22 rifle, and, my personal favorite,
- this funky 12 guage that looks like it's mounted on the furniture for a BAR. Coolest damn thing in the world.
So I take the guns out and start looking them over, already wondering if any stores are open that'd sell gun lube and cleaning solution. I'm ready to start tearing one of my t-shirts into cleaning patches right then and there, when Ma gets up and walks over.
"Let me see," she says, as I'm examing the 20 guage. So I hand it to her in a manner that keeps the barrel pointed out toward the woods behind the house. Ma takes the boomstick and turns it over in her hands, in a manner that aims the barrel directly at my face.
"Jesus, ma!" I exclaim, grabbing the barrel and pushing it upward. "You just swept me with the barrel."
"It's not loaded, John," she says, and sweeps me again! Ma, love ya to death, but did I really issue from your loins? Criminy!
"All guns are always loaded, ma." Mom looked a bit confused, though my stepfather, a stern and pragmatic man (God love him), nodded with approval. I took the shotgun back and spent the next twenty minutes explaining gun safety to my parents. Their concern about guns has always been that they're just naturally "dangerous," an accident could happen, that sort of thing. By the time I was done, my mother looked rather impressed with her son's sense of responsibility.
The best part: Grandpa can't take the guns with him to his new apartment in the city (they're strictly forbidden by the lease), and when he mentioned this to ma, she mentioned me. So I just became the proud owner of three new long arms, and they're coming home with me after Christmas. Me = stoked.
The moral of the story: practice good gun safety, not only because it saves lives, but also because one of your relatives might give you some free guns.
My parents are, put simply, virulently anti-gun. Not in a Brady Campaign kinda way, but they don't want guns in their home, and they're utterly baffled by my fascination with weaponry (firearms first and foremost). Theirs is a polite, suburban sort of revulsion, wherein they freak at the sight of guns, even as they make it clear that they're fascinated by them.
The 'rents recently bought my grandfather's home in the Amana Colonies, as he's getting on in age and wanted to move into the city (Cedar Rapids, in this case). It's basically their vacation home right now, and an ideal place for the whole family to meet up during the holidays, as most of my clan hails from the Great State of Iowa. Naturally, I caught a flight home for Thanksgiving and stayed for a few days.
Upon awakening Friday, I went into the master bedroom to find my mother and stepfather doing their usual morning routine - laying in bed, drinking coffee, smoking Marb Lights (ya see where I get it), and horsing around with the dogs. I go have a coffee with them and have a chat, and the subject of firearms comes up.
"You know," mom said, "Your grandfather's got a bunch of guns in that closet."
... and I'm up like a shot, digging through the closet; besides the time I found his 12-guage when I was five (and put it back and slowly backed out of the room), I've never seen Grandpa's guns. I happen upon:
- a double-barrel 20 guage
- a bolt-action .22 rifle, and, my personal favorite,
- this funky 12 guage that looks like it's mounted on the furniture for a BAR. Coolest damn thing in the world.
So I take the guns out and start looking them over, already wondering if any stores are open that'd sell gun lube and cleaning solution. I'm ready to start tearing one of my t-shirts into cleaning patches right then and there, when Ma gets up and walks over.
"Let me see," she says, as I'm examing the 20 guage. So I hand it to her in a manner that keeps the barrel pointed out toward the woods behind the house. Ma takes the boomstick and turns it over in her hands, in a manner that aims the barrel directly at my face.
"Jesus, ma!" I exclaim, grabbing the barrel and pushing it upward. "You just swept me with the barrel."
"It's not loaded, John," she says, and sweeps me again! Ma, love ya to death, but did I really issue from your loins? Criminy!
"All guns are always loaded, ma." Mom looked a bit confused, though my stepfather, a stern and pragmatic man (God love him), nodded with approval. I took the shotgun back and spent the next twenty minutes explaining gun safety to my parents. Their concern about guns has always been that they're just naturally "dangerous," an accident could happen, that sort of thing. By the time I was done, my mother looked rather impressed with her son's sense of responsibility.
The best part: Grandpa can't take the guns with him to his new apartment in the city (they're strictly forbidden by the lease), and when he mentioned this to ma, she mentioned me. So I just became the proud owner of three new long arms, and they're coming home with me after Christmas. Me = stoked.
The moral of the story: practice good gun safety, not only because it saves lives, but also because one of your relatives might give you some free guns.
