Via Uncle, I read a loosely written diatribe at LeanLeft that pretty much threw the word “hyperbole” for a loop. The writer apparently felt it fair to level virtually every imaginable insult at gun owners who responded to the Zumbo-ner spectacle. In essence (since I only skimmed the less profane parts) I am an insecure, slack jawed yokel who is endowed somewhat comparably to a gerbil, finds reading comprehension and shpeling difficult, and I am blindly in love with guns.

In truth, that’s not far off. Obviously, I seek an audience and approval for my writings, which would therefore prove me to be somewhat insecure. I was born and raised in a major metropolitan area in Southern California, which is obviously why I have a rebel flag on the back of a proverbial lifted diesel with a gun rack in the back window and my wife/sister sitting next to me. I received a Bachelors degree from a public university, so my reading and writing skills are much lacking the refinement of a private, Eastern education. As for that other charge, I shall not dignify myself with a response.

However, I felt it may be fair to recount a little “story of my life” that, up until this very moment, has led me to be a shooter and “gun nut.”  Full disclosure time.
I guess you might say it was a product of both nature and nurture. I first felt a rubber grip and nickeled steel by osmosis, as my mother held a Colt Lawman Mk.III in her hands, a gift from my dad on the very first Mother’s Day they would celebrate together. My mom was four months pregnant with me at the time, and my dad was making sure that she could protect herself when he was gone, since he worked nights to take up financial slack.

My dad was a shooter, a hunter and a reloader. I still have a mounted deer head that he took with a family heirloom Springfield M1903A3. As such, I probably caught the first whiff of cordite before I was even born. Years later, I’d take my first deer with the same rifle. One of my sons will do the same someday I’d hope.

At one year of age, I was lying peacefully in my crib (ok, thats a lie - I was collicky, so I was probably anything but peaceful) in our beach community home when a man evidently decided that he wanted to take some things of ours. My dad was away working, but my mom and our German Shepherd, Max, were home. Max’s low growl and the sound of an 870 coming into battery were apparently enough to dissuade that person, deciding instead to go off down the street to burgle another house. They hit five houses in our neighborhood that week, but not ours. Of course, I had no idea.

At age four, I got my first gun, a Daisy Red Ryder. Man, I loved that damn thing. To teach me gun safety, dad took me to the range and let me shoot the Savage 101 that now sits in my safe at home. That single shot .22 making little holes next to dad’s .44 are one of my fondest memories of childhood. Good ol’ fashion fun.

Unfortunately, that would also be one of only a handful of memories I have of my dad. Just before my fifth birthday, he would die quietly in the night of cardiac arrest. I was the man of the house at five, watching over my mom and my 18 month old baby brother.

Of course, mom got a boyfriend a few years down the road. What a prick - even at eight, I knew I hated that guy. Well, it finally culminated in him getting dumped and having a TRO filed against. Gun defense advocates know that more often than not, TRO’s do dick-all. So it was in this case. One night, after I had gone to sleep, the ex apparently decided that getting in our house, what with the bars on the windows and doors, would be easier if he just took the garage door off it’s hinges. He proceeded to do this - loudly. The first thing he saw on entering the house was mom, phone dialed to 911 in one hand, a nickel .357 Colt in the other. He charged. She shot. She missed. He ran away. This would be the last time this drama unfolded. It was clear that she refused to be a victim. I know what “gun defense” means.

Fast forward a few more years, another boyfriend, now a new step dad. I’m in high school at this point, in ROTC and on the rifle team. I enjoy shooting, and found I am rather decent. The new dad doesn’t like it so much. My Red Ryder from my fourth birthday, which I practice with in the backyard, goes away one night while I sleep. Suddenly, I know what “gun control” is, and it doesn’t involve breathing or sight picture. I don’t like it.

I continue to shoot, covertly. I buy a new pellet rifle and store it in the arms locker at school. I go with friends to ranges around town.

I turn eighteen, and theres nothing step-dad can do. Our neighborhood is shit, and getting worse. I go to Big 5 with my new debit card, fill out a 4473 and wait ten days to take home a Mossberg 500. If the parents won’t step up the plate, I will.

I take a class on safety, then one on tactics. I teach my mom how to operate the weapon. I show my brother. My step-dad wants nothing to do with it, but I know my dad would be pleased with my 18th birthday present to myself.

One night, there are two drive-bys on my street. Yelling. Shots. A fight. So, I’m sitting on the porch with the light off, cradling that 12ga while my brother holds my .30-30, waiting for the gangs to leave or waiting for the cops to finally show up.

I repeat the purchase process at my 21st birthday, the next milestone. This time I take home an XD40. At around this time, one of my brother’s friends moves in with us. All goes well for a little bit, then turns to shit. Stuff starts coming up missing, I swear I smell weed in the other room. Then, one of my guns goes missing and I shit a brick and a half. I run a black op and find it and the other missing stuff in the spare room, the one the friend occupies. When he gets home, we brace him and kick him out. He reacts rather badly to my mom and brother, shoving my brother and getting upset with my mom. He pulls a knife. I tell him to leave. I have a gun, he doesn’t. He leaves. Rumors quickly spread that our house and its occupants are not to be fucked with.

The folks buy a house in the mountains. Now, all of a sudden, step-dad is interested in guns. What if there’s an earthquake and people loot? What if a mountain lion tries to eat the dog or your mom? Society breaks down? We need to hunt for food? What if…? Well, dad, I’m happy to oblige. I’ve written about educating my folks before, and making sure they had enough of the appropriate guns and ammo and, most importantly, familiarization and training.

In the meantime, I continue to shoot. I shoot the .22 I inherited, putting its holes on target next to .44 caliber holes from the Smith 629 I inherited. My mom still owns her Colt, the catalyst of all this, and it resides in her bedside table. I still have the 1903A3 that was my great-grandfathers, grandfathers, fathers and is now mine. It stands in a cabinet wearing a thin sheen of oil, waiting for the next generation in our lineage to come along so it can change hands again.

Some people will ask “why own guns?”

Well, for every person its a different answer. The generic answer is that its a right that should be exercised. The smarmy answer is that for every gun you don’t own, I’ll own two. The sarcastic says “why not?” The humble answer is to protect me and mine. “They’re fun” is perfectly acceptable. All are correct and just, but I like to believe that deep down, every person has their own unique answer to that question.

That’s mine.