| If
I had a nickel for every time I’ve been asked that question,
I’d have, uh … as many guns as his firearm-festooned
editorial Immenseness, Rob-Roy. It’s been asked
of me by all flavors of folks in all slices of society, with
attitudes and expressions ranging from angry-arrogant to curtly-contemptuous,
to brainless an’ befuddled. My answers to it have sorta
formed three phases in my professional gun-carrying life.
During that first and longest phase I answered all of ‘em
sincere and articulate, and often following up with stacks
of historic and legal documents. After many years, I concluded
only a semi-significant sliver of people even heard what I
was sayin’. The rest had already made up their muddled
minds.
Finally,
I just got sick of it, and moved on to phase 2. If those
asking seemed to have teensy open spaces in their minds,
I gave ’em S & A: “Sincere & Articulate.”
The more harshly-bleating sheep, however, often got exchanges
like this:
“So,”
queried Snidely Snotworth III, lookin’ down his un-busted
but needed-busted nose, “Why do you think you have
to carry a gun?”
“Well,”
bellowed the Brutish Neanderthal (that would be me): “Because
you’re not QUALIFIED to carry one. You haven’t
got the skills, the judgment, the sense of responsibility,
or the courage for it.”
This
answer often popped out after I’d just returned from
some Heart-Of-Darkness where every living soul knew that
the difference between slaves and free people is having
the means to determination to defend their lives, property,
and liberties. That meant having gun and guts and God-given
rights. Most of those people would quite literally die fighting
for the freedoms so many Americans casually give away, and
proudly bear social responsibilities those sheeple* won’t
even recognize.
*Sheeple: Sheep-like people, many of whom deny the existence
of wolves, and vote to pull the teeth of the sheepdogs who
protect the flock.
The
Voices
Then
I matriculated to phase 3, where I started having some fun
with the Snidely Snotworth types. When they asked the Big
Question, I’d go all hunchy-shouldered an’ secretive,
then lean in close and mutter, “Because of the voices,
ya know?” “The VOICES?” sniveled the Snidelies,
suddenly scaredy-catish. “Oh, yeah, the voices …
They told me to be, you know, prepared for the
when the killer clowns come …”I’d furtively
goggle around. “The voices say the killer clowns are
comin’ … They’re cannibals, some
of ‘em, and …”
About
that time the Snidelies would be skitterin’ away like
mice on polished marble.
Yeah,
I know, the “killer clowns’ answer might not
have been “helpful” but it just as good as giving
the S&A answers to the sheeple, and it was a lot more
fun for me. But sometimes, just sometimes, we all need a
little reminder.
Continue
(return to top). |
That
includes me, and I’ve got one to share with you. One
that got me where I live.
The
Connor Clan has been nomadic, and we’ve lived in a
number of places. In one of ‘em, we shared a side
yard and friendship with a young woman we’ll call
Miss Maine, and her knee-high daughter, Little Lizzie. Miss
Maine quickly bonded with the Memsaab Helena. Clearly, Helena’s
Amazon-warrior spirit and skill with arms impressed Miss
Maine mightily, and much of their time and talk revolved
around that fierce self-confidence – and guns.
As
for Little Lizzie, the munchkin almost duct-taped herself
to the Mem’s leg. She followed Helena everywhere,
but always, always, kept glancing back to check on her momma,
as though she were the worried parent.
There
was something guarded, something hurt and defensive, about
both of them, and that fearfulness extended to me for a
while. They got over it, thank God. Then I sorta became
a moving bunker for ‘em, representing cover and protection.
Finally, we learned the story.
Miss
Maine had been attacked – brutally and viciously.
You don’t wanna know the details. As with so many
such crimes, it wasn’t really about sex. It was about
hate and domination, cowardice and cruelty. And an even
younger Little Lizzie had witnessed it. I like to think
the Memsaab and I helped them to recover emotionally.
Then
one day Lizzie came and snuggled in my shadow, visibly disturbed.
That morning her Kindergarten had put on “Frighten
The Munchkins Day.” Some schools do a pretty good
job of alerting children to predators – don’t
go with strangers and that kinda thing – but others
do more harm than good. All they do is terrify the tots
and give ‘em no operating options. Lizzie already
had twin tears glistening, ready to fall when she grabbed
a tiny fistful of my trouser-leg and asked, “Conner-Sir,
will you a’ways be here? Wouldja be here … When
the bad mens come?”
My
knees cracked on the sidewalk as she slammed into my shoulder,
shaking with sobs as the hot tears came, splashing my neck
and searing in to my soul. “’Cause I’m
a-scared!” she choked, and clutched me tighter.
Oh
GOD! Who would not – who could not –
fight without fear, suffer without sense of sacrifice, and
kill or die deliberately, using the most effective means
available – to protect life, liberty and a Little
Lizzie? For God’s sake, who?
Those
who would not are no better than the predators.
Maybe
in Phase 4, when somebody pops the Big Question I’ll
just smile and say, “For life, liberty, and Little
Lizzie.”
You
guys can fill in the details.
Most
lucky people don't have to contact Connor, but if you insist:
ThatGunWriterGuy@aol.com
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