A gun in the family
Sometime around 1980,when we were visiting my parents, my then-husband said that he was going to take a gun to the police for disposal. I remembered the rifles, kept in a basement cupboard. My parents had shot skeet; my brother hunted game birds, which Mom roasted and we ate even though we had to discreetly spit shot out of some bites.
But I was astonished to see W. unwrap a towel to show me a sleek leather holster. He opened its brass snap to remove a an ominous-looking pistol that suggested noir detective movies. The barrel was long and slim, the stock, carved wood.
The gun, a prized Nambu semi-automatic, had been given to Dad by a Japanese officer at the end of World War II, as a gesture of thanks for saving his vision. (One of the terms of surrender was care for Japanese officers; my father was part of a team of medics posted to Tokyo for months following VJ Day.)
He also gave Dad a Japanese flag, inscribed with his name, the date, and his wish for peace. The gun began as an instrument of war, but ended as a symbol of amity. I had seen the flag, a war souvenir I carried to show-and-tell at school, but had never known of the other, more disturbing gift.
"Where was it?" I asked W., figuring it had been buried in the attic among ratty fur stoles and crumbling scrapbooks. "In his bedside table", W. replied. "There have been some break-ins in the area, and he was scared."
W. saw how Dad's fear of an intruder made the gun seem a workable idea. W. told him that given its age and condition, the gun could misfire, and that it was far likelier to be used against him than to protect. He offered to turn it in, sparing Dad questions about what he was doing with an unlicensed firearm.
This memory rose when I read my friend Beth Adams' post, "On Men, Guns and Fear", on her blog, The Cassandra Pages. In her searching piece, she quotes from an article that captures the characteristics of the kind of man who stockpiles guns.
Other than being white, my father fit none of the criteria, nor was he stockpiling. However, he, a life-long pacifist, kept that pistol at hand, loaded. I still wonder how he reconciled the Nambu and its purpose with his beliefs. The distance from fear to bullet is shorter than I ever imagined.
In December, 2012, when the memory of the Nambu was all but lost, Dad's great-granddaughter was born, less than a week after the Sandy Hook shooting. Her father, an elementary-school teacher, and her mother named her Grace, in memory of six-year-old Grace McDonnell, one of the children killed.
But I was astonished to see W. unwrap a towel to show me a sleek leather holster. He opened its brass snap to remove a an ominous-looking pistol that suggested noir detective movies. The barrel was long and slim, the stock, carved wood.
The gun, a prized Nambu semi-automatic, had been given to Dad by a Japanese officer at the end of World War II, as a gesture of thanks for saving his vision. (One of the terms of surrender was care for Japanese officers; my father was part of a team of medics posted to Tokyo for months following VJ Day.)
He also gave Dad a Japanese flag, inscribed with his name, the date, and his wish for peace. The gun began as an instrument of war, but ended as a symbol of amity. I had seen the flag, a war souvenir I carried to show-and-tell at school, but had never known of the other, more disturbing gift.
"Where was it?" I asked W., figuring it had been buried in the attic among ratty fur stoles and crumbling scrapbooks. "In his bedside table", W. replied. "There have been some break-ins in the area, and he was scared."
W. saw how Dad's fear of an intruder made the gun seem a workable idea. W. told him that given its age and condition, the gun could misfire, and that it was far likelier to be used against him than to protect. He offered to turn it in, sparing Dad questions about what he was doing with an unlicensed firearm.
This memory rose when I read my friend Beth Adams' post, "On Men, Guns and Fear", on her blog, The Cassandra Pages. In her searching piece, she quotes from an article that captures the characteristics of the kind of man who stockpiles guns.
Other than being white, my father fit none of the criteria, nor was he stockpiling. However, he, a life-long pacifist, kept that pistol at hand, loaded. I still wonder how he reconciled the Nambu and its purpose with his beliefs. The distance from fear to bullet is shorter than I ever imagined.
In December, 2012, when the memory of the Nambu was all but lost, Dad's great-granddaughter was born, less than a week after the Sandy Hook shooting. Her father, an elementary-school teacher, and her mother named her Grace, in memory of six-year-old Grace McDonnell, one of the children killed.
Comments
We are complicit in the loss of our way of life. Our governments have been greedy in accepting only "well-off" immigrants. No one that I know has balked at accepting $1 million plus for a "tear-down" bungalow which would be replaced by a $4 million mansion. Two weeks ago, I signed a petition in favour of "supported" housing for our growing number of homeless mental health
consumers. Apparently, the modular units would be placed on city land that is currently being used as a dog park. "Not in my backyard" is the cry of the opponents.
Our wages have not kept up with the cost of living. While most of the people that I know have enough, we exploit service workers, predominantly women and often of another minority groups. Yesterday, my daughter was inaugurated as an executive of a union that represents food service workers, care aides, and hotel workers. For the first time, the executive is three women who have risen from the ranks and represent the three major ethnicities represented by the union. Personally, it will be a steep learning curve for my daughter but it is a step towards a better future for the workers.
Guns! My grandfather was in the Merchant Navy and Mum says that he owned a pistol. As he sailed around the world as a young man, it was probably useful. Like your father, my grandpa did not fit the picture. I am working in a school this year and I wonder at the ease with which outsiders come and go. Certainly, in France and in Mexico, schools are enclosed by fences or walls. Adults and former students wander into our school unnoticed. The shoes on the lawn are a poignant reminder and a warning to all of us. Even in Canada.....
We were in Ireland for 10 days - during which time we saw NO guns. Not 1. Not a police officer, not in a store - nowhere.
Within 10 minutes of our deplaning in Chicago, I'd see 3 security guards with guns. Not even "real" police, just paid security.
It's a cultural question worth our study...
love,
Janice
I love how your pride in your daughter's achievement shines through!
Janice: Every time I return to the US, where relatives live in open-carry states, I am highly anxious. A friend just rented an apt. in Canada to get away for a number of months every year. Her family has seen 9 persons whom they know die from gun violence.
materfamilias: Thank you, and thank you for reading.
Leslie Milligan: Whoa, I'd probably leave a man with a 457 too, In another branch of my family, I have seen how the "collector" mentality sets in and my relative said, "Oh, that's some nut, not me." I feel sorrow when I think of your young brother, and the senseless tragedy of his death. A young classmate of mine accidentally killed his best friend, and went to prison for some years, probably because he was no longer a minor. I saw how that just about tore the family apart. His mother never felt that she could be a part of the community again, and became a near-recluse.
Guns are everywhere in my community. One store displays bullets in the snack food and toy departments!
ENOUGH!