Johnny Got His Gun.1
New member
This morning across the United States of America, a generation of children are opening their presents. Frantically, they tear through the wrapping paper of long boxes which feel weighted. But it's a pleasant weight, one that feels right in the hands even through the cardboard of the box. The boxes are coming open now. A proud mother and father watch anxiously as the child opens that present, that first great gift.
Young hands flutter over remnants of paper and tape and fumble at the flaps, then grab the stock of a first Daisy one-cock, or a pump-action BB/pellet rifle--the lessons begin. Other children get that first .22 or .410 with the obligatory parental inculcation into the Way of the Gun.
The gift boxes become targets. BBs are strewn in various places in the living room, but easily gathered with a magnet. Live rounds are displayed for the other guns; feeding and ejecting is taught. Aluminum cans are scavenged for the feast of steel and lead that follows. Child and parent smile, and the importance of controlling the muzzle, loading the gun, taking aim only at the target, and squeezing the trigger follow suit. The targets are checked and fired upon repeatedly. Immediate gratification and correction follow as well.
A first hunt takes place, perhaps on a sparrow or a squirrel; the responsibility of bearing a gun reinforces itself through the initiating priest to the son. The idea of the gun not taking back a life becomes evident, and reaffirms how precious life is.
These children learn and train. They gain appreciation of discipline and responsibility. They validate with their Christmas presents the beauty of another present given us some time ago--elegant and powerful in its simplicity and profundity and necessity. A document become its own wrapping paper decorated with bows tied in red, strong knots, the second bow the reddest of them all.
Berrien C. Henderson
[This message has been edited by Johnny Got His Gun.1 (edited December 25, 1999).]
Young hands flutter over remnants of paper and tape and fumble at the flaps, then grab the stock of a first Daisy one-cock, or a pump-action BB/pellet rifle--the lessons begin. Other children get that first .22 or .410 with the obligatory parental inculcation into the Way of the Gun.
The gift boxes become targets. BBs are strewn in various places in the living room, but easily gathered with a magnet. Live rounds are displayed for the other guns; feeding and ejecting is taught. Aluminum cans are scavenged for the feast of steel and lead that follows. Child and parent smile, and the importance of controlling the muzzle, loading the gun, taking aim only at the target, and squeezing the trigger follow suit. The targets are checked and fired upon repeatedly. Immediate gratification and correction follow as well.
A first hunt takes place, perhaps on a sparrow or a squirrel; the responsibility of bearing a gun reinforces itself through the initiating priest to the son. The idea of the gun not taking back a life becomes evident, and reaffirms how precious life is.
These children learn and train. They gain appreciation of discipline and responsibility. They validate with their Christmas presents the beauty of another present given us some time ago--elegant and powerful in its simplicity and profundity and necessity. A document become its own wrapping paper decorated with bows tied in red, strong knots, the second bow the reddest of them all.
Berrien C. Henderson
[This message has been edited by Johnny Got His Gun.1 (edited December 25, 1999).]