The .38

“Mom . . . please . . . “ my son says to me as I walk into the office. He’s 17, a young man now, strong, capable, a gentle soul with a passion for rock climbing and parkour. He’s supposed to be leaving for school, but instead he’s loading the gun I now keep by my desk instead. “Oh, I forgot to reload that. Sorry; I’ll do it now,” I say as I take it from him and begin sliding the bullets into their chamber. “Please, Mom,” he firmly admonishes as he grabs his backpack and heads out the door, worry in his voice.

How did it come to this? We live in the country on a back road, far from any neighbors so guns have always been a part of life here, but we had them mostly to dispatch a suffering animal quickly or to lob a shot over the head of a bear showing an inclination toward raiding beehives. It has always been a necessary tool, but seldom used and it would gather a considerable layer of dust between outings. My father, who bought this property in the early 60s and lived in this house till the day he died, did for a time keep this same gun in a holster attached under the seat of his chair. When he was in our local town government he had taken on some nasty characters at one point and they had become threatening. Father always said that when people start to threaten it’s because you’re getting close to something, so that is a good sign to do more of what you are doing. He armed himself and forged ahead.

Now it is my turn to arm myself and forge ahead, but how do things come to this? I resent the fact that what was a seldom needed tool that sat in the closet is now a constant companion. I resent that my son is as aware of security as he has become. We moved away from Los Angeles so that our children could grow up without such realities and until I had success in preventing our friend, Audrius Kazenas, from being quickly deported we never locked the door or drew the curtains - and the gun gathered dust. “Mom, please be careful,” my son says as he opens the front door to leave. I earnestly assure him I will, but I hear his key in the door, locking it behind him, not trusting me to lock it after him.

I moved here so that the threat of violence would not dictate our lives. But when federal law enforcement agencies are not responsive, when the law becomes a suggestion to be enforced preferentially; when protecting our citizens becomes a game to be played only if one happens to have the time and inclination to do so, well then . . . teenagers are left to do what those charged with that job can not be bothered to do. My son is protecting me, cares what happens to me. I am old enough to remember when the federal government would do that if a citizen was faced with the circumstances I'm dealing with now. Government was a lot smaller then. What happened?