21 December 2013
In rural Maryland, those that might be labeled “hillbillies” and proud of it included several of our neighbors. Among their prized possessions were a Ford pickup truck with rifle-rack in the back window. Their home’s family room included a gun cabinet the size of a classic wardrobe case or refrigerator. Nearly all of their hunting gear was on display, except perhaps for one or two in various stages of assembly for cleaning in the workshop off the garage.
This gun cabinet had large glass panes, clearly showcasing the lethal contents. Keys to these cabinet doors were regularly in the lock. Other components of their robbery-prevention posture included a well-trained German Shepherd and his master being the size of an American football linebacker.
Most importantly, he was very skilled and very intelligent. If the “USMC, Retired” adorning their road-side mailbox wasn’t enough of a clue there, the particular insignia indicated to anyone familiar with the Marine Corps that he was quite adept.
All the neighbors knew of the cabinet, as it was visible once inside the front door.
Shortly after turning twelve years old, this family took me with them on a casual hunt just over the hill in our neighborhood into a little valley. Despite my reluctance, the father insisted that this was all arranged with my parents. Essentially, attendance on my part was obligatory.
They brought a few rifles with them.
The father selected just the right shotgun (n.b., limited range), and after a demonstration or two, had me use it.
Of course, they all knew that I was unlikely to hit the broadside of a barn, let alone a tiny squirrel or bird from 50 paces away.
This was all to teach a very important lesson.
That carefully selected device was intended to be loud enough to leave a slight ringing in the ear and weighted enough to recoil, leaving my shoulder sore for a few days yet without bruising.
This is the beautiful wisdom of hillbilly gun control:
In a safe and controlled situation, teach a child and have him actually use a real gun. Leave with something to remember the occasion, such as a sore shoulder.
With the mystery gone, the guns are safe despite being in an easily accessible case.
It also illustrates why they are rightfully proud of their way of life.
Subtleties of their approach are rooted in the liberty of sovereign individuals, concepts often lost on city-folk due to distortions of the word “liberal” that have become divorced from libre. (This is a linguistics statement of fact about modern usage, completely without political connotations.)
The path involves true education but ultimately leads to personal choice through shared responsibility where neighbors look out for one another.
The father extended an open invitation for me to join them on future hunts, with my parents' permission of course. (Such hunts weren’t merely sport; you cleaned, cooked and ate what you killed.)
I was the one who decided that hunting little creatures wasn’t for me, but at least it was my choice.
Another gun wouldn’t be touched for another thirty years, until participating in skeet shooting as part of a “team building” exercise from a Silicon Valley tech company– or as one co-worker dubbed it, “Golf with a shotgun.”