Keeping Tradition: The Right to Bear

Among my earliest memories are my family's annual road trips to Georgia. Sometimes it was for Christmas, a family reunion, my great-grandfather's birthday or first Monday in August. Whatever the occasion, we would usually stay in the sharecroppers’ shack my grandmother shared with her sister, Iola, before relocating to New Jersey.


Aunt Iola’s house consisted of a front room, which doubled as the living room and guest bedroom, the middle room, where everyone in the house slept and the kitchen. The front room and kitchen opened onto porches that ran the width of the house. It was a shotgun shack in every sense of the word. You could truly fire a 12-guage through the front door and the pellets would fly unobstructed through the back door.

For at least a decade, that shack provided me the comfort of consistency, as it did for two generations before. Birthdays, baby teeth, third grade and puberty brought about subtle and sweeping changes, but summers at the shack restored order to an otherwise chaotic world. The shack experienced it’s own changes; a water spigot on the back porch, eliminating trips to the well, the switch from wood-burning to electric stove, a washing machine, but despite these modifications, it remained a place where one was forced back to basics. I suppose it was a country retreat before such things were popular.

Among the notable consistencies of the shack was the rifle in the front room. As far back as I can remember it was always there. I can’t ever recall touching or seeing anyone else handle it. It just sat there like polite guest, waiting to contribute to dinner conversation. My grandmother says there was always a “piece of gun” in the house, just in case somebody got ignorant, but outside of a couple of warning shots, it had never been used on a person. After hearing her speak of the rifle like a faithful family member, I was slightly puzzled as to why there was never a gun in our house.

“Somebody woulda died,” was all she’d say.

I did learn that my grandfather kept an old .38 revolver at his shop that made it’s way to the house after he passed away.

“You want it?” my grandmother asked.

I couldn’t say “no” fast enough. On one of my last trips to Georgia with the family, I got to visit a gun store and “try” on several different firearms. I fell in love with a .45 semi-automatic handgun. She fit into the hollow of my hand like… well, let’s just say she fit. I decided then that I shouldn’t be a gun owner because I would be one of those people who sat around waiting for an excuse. I loved the feel of the steel in my hand. It scared me a little because I am not a violent person at all, but with a pistol in my hand, all I wanted to do was work with it.

After several years, countless debates, and some personal growth, I’ve changed positions and am now the registered owner of my grandfather’s Smith & Wes.son .38 revolver. Though it’s lighter and more compact than the .45, it has more forceful recoil, which threw off my accuracy initially. I’m proud to report that, after a few trips to the range, no target is safe. I’ve grown accustomed to the recoil and I’m shooting straight.

Getting licensed isn’t nearly as difficult as Charlton Hes.ton and them would have us believe, at least not in New Jersey. It’s still a process, especially since I’ve inherited the weapon. I thought it would be as easy a process as transferring the title of a vehicle. Nothing is ever easy, but having friends in law enforcement help. Still, I had to get a firearm ID card, a pistol permit, fill out a mental health waiver form and get fingerprinted.

I found out some interesting things during the process. My pistol has a past. Well, I didn’t think she was a virgin, but I’d never heard any stories and assumed she’d led a nice, quiet life. My grandfather wasn’t even the registered owner. He had never bothered to register the weapon in his name when he inherited it from his brother. It was still registered to my great uncle, who’s been dead since 1971. He was a licensed private investigator. I had no clue.

So it turns out that my pistol is older than me, but I’m cool with it. She’s in pristine condition and handles like new. She’s even turned a few heads out on the range. We are sleeping together and I admit she makes me feel safe and empowered. I’ve joined the ranks of the folk who came before me and am keeping a piece of gun in the house… just in case somebody gets ignorant.