The neighborhood where my late father operated a business was once if not lovely and upscale, then at least lively and proud.
With time, it became less and less so. Windows sprouted bars. Residents fled to suburbs. Businesses fled with them.
As he had for decades, each morning Father got up for the now longer drive to his place. Into his pants went a holster.
I thought that I had known of all the times he was robbed. I have only recently come to learn of this one:
Late one day, two thugs burst into the office.
With one waving a gun, they demanded the day’s receipts. Yo will be dead, they said.
My father now was sitting behind his desk, one hand on the unholstered gun. His one employee was sitting before him, crying like a baby: I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die.
Just put your hands on the desk and get slowly up, he was told. The gun he carried was a snub nosed something, single shot. He had at best a moment to make a decision.
Onto the desk went his hands, out the door went his cash and the two thugs, never to be seen again.
People who never live where the rubber meets the road often ask themselves, why does anyone ever need more than a single shot revolver?
I’ve never carried a gun myself, thankful that because of the years Dad spent nose to nose with folks like this I’ll never have to.
But, if in a different circumstance the difference between his life stays or his life goes is the adequacy of firepower, then I have no problem whatsover approving the sale of rapid firing weapons.
Because it might just have been the difference that day between life and death. Had he pulled the trigger on human excrement of the sort which stood before him that day, my only reactions would have been relief and pride.