I didn’t grow up around my guns. As a child, my father (a farmer at that time) had one .22 . . . um, is “shotgun” the correct term? Or, is it a rifle?
Either way, he had ONE firearm; he kept it behind the seat of his farm-truck, ready for any emergency out in some lonely pasture. You know — ’cause cows and prairie dogs are soooo fierce.
Dad wasn’t a “gun guy.” He didn’t even hunt, even though everyone (and I mean EVERYONE) in our family did.
So, guns are rather foreign to me and seem, well, a bit unnecessary.
That statement is (most decidedly) NOT true for my husband and his family.
Guns. Guns. Guns.
Yeah, my husband’s family enjoys the relationship they have with their guns.
(they do keep the guns appropriately locked in cabinets and the ammunition is kept in a separate locked cabinet; woo hoo for that)
Here in our house, I believe the Hubby has three guns. Why? I DO NOT KNOW! He doesn’t really hunt; if . . . IF he goes hunting, it’s only for the excuse of firing his gun. In five years of marriage and 5-6 hunting adventures, he has yet to actually bring back anything. He just likes to fire a gun.
With the exception of my father (who is now a United Methodist minister), I guess it’s a guy-thing to like and desire guns. Hubby recently bought a hand-gun . . . just because. Actually, I think he purchased it because his buddy, his “boyfriend,” purchased one. They go on man-dates to the rifle range — just to feel manly and fire off rounds from their new toys.
And, because of that purchase, the Little Lady has added an interesting item to her dress-up collection.
It came in the mail — innocently encased in a slightly battered manila envelope — the bulky, mysterious shape within pushing against the paper wrapper.
Hubby had looked at me a bit accusingly, silently asking what I’d purchased from Ebay or Etsy this time.
“It’s not mine,” I said in reply to his unasked question.
Turns out, it was his. His “prize” for buying a new gun and for attending a local gun show.
The NRA, of which my husband is not a member, sent my husband a hat, which the Little Lady promptly claimed as HERS.
Oy ve – she really is her father’s child.