Paul Revere
New member
Living just outside of Chicago, one would think that the "gun culture" all but packed up and moved to the sticks. But it hasn't, it hasn't at all.
As a young boy, I watched my dad with amazement as he packed for a duck hunting trip, then ran to the door upon his return, to examine the mallards he'd taken. When my older brother turned eleven, my dad gave him a single barrel 12 guage shotgun, and then gave it to me when I turned 11. Dad then gave my brother a nice side by side in a beautiful crushed velvet case. I was quite jealous.
Our bird hunting trips were cherished outings, mostly on outlying farms, away from the city. But it was during those trips that my brother and I learned about our guns, about the game we hunted, and experienced the excitement of shooting and the pain from the kick of the gun. We learned about respect, respect for the land and the game, respect for our weapons, and most importantly, respect for each other.
Dad was a strict disciplinarian and did not tolerate anything except the utmost in safety while afield, demanding our attention at all times. These trips lead to long talks about dad's experience in the Army, and about the action he saw first hand. It opened our eyes to the countless sacrifices that out fellow Americans made for our great Nation and our beloved freedom.
I began to look at my dad differently after those talks, after those hunts. He let my brother and I touch his scars, where the enemy shrapnel ripped into his flesh. He explained the horror of war, his personal accounts of what he saw, and the tragic mortar round that left him severely wounded and partially disabled. He told of the horrific ride on the stretcher atop a jeep, bouncing through the Korean battle ground, and of the one year hospital stay recovering from those wounds.
My dad was often and son of a so and so, but I always respected him. I knew he was a great man and still is to this day. My mom so proudly displayed his medals and his purple heart in a case next to the dining room table. And I know what he endured to earn each one of them.
My freedom and yours was fought for with the blood of our kin, and it is that blood that flows through my veins at this very moment. Our enemies may be hiding behind legitimate facades, and some may not be hiding at all. But until this blood flows no more, it will be our freedom that I will so proudly fight for. And I will never, ever submit to tyranny by disposing any one of our precious God given rights.
This is what it means to me to be a free American. Love of God, family, and country...a love handed down in succession from those who spilled blood for our freedom, so that all of us could be free. It is up to us now.
As a young boy, I watched my dad with amazement as he packed for a duck hunting trip, then ran to the door upon his return, to examine the mallards he'd taken. When my older brother turned eleven, my dad gave him a single barrel 12 guage shotgun, and then gave it to me when I turned 11. Dad then gave my brother a nice side by side in a beautiful crushed velvet case. I was quite jealous.
Our bird hunting trips were cherished outings, mostly on outlying farms, away from the city. But it was during those trips that my brother and I learned about our guns, about the game we hunted, and experienced the excitement of shooting and the pain from the kick of the gun. We learned about respect, respect for the land and the game, respect for our weapons, and most importantly, respect for each other.
Dad was a strict disciplinarian and did not tolerate anything except the utmost in safety while afield, demanding our attention at all times. These trips lead to long talks about dad's experience in the Army, and about the action he saw first hand. It opened our eyes to the countless sacrifices that out fellow Americans made for our great Nation and our beloved freedom.
I began to look at my dad differently after those talks, after those hunts. He let my brother and I touch his scars, where the enemy shrapnel ripped into his flesh. He explained the horror of war, his personal accounts of what he saw, and the tragic mortar round that left him severely wounded and partially disabled. He told of the horrific ride on the stretcher atop a jeep, bouncing through the Korean battle ground, and of the one year hospital stay recovering from those wounds.
My dad was often and son of a so and so, but I always respected him. I knew he was a great man and still is to this day. My mom so proudly displayed his medals and his purple heart in a case next to the dining room table. And I know what he endured to earn each one of them.
My freedom and yours was fought for with the blood of our kin, and it is that blood that flows through my veins at this very moment. Our enemies may be hiding behind legitimate facades, and some may not be hiding at all. But until this blood flows no more, it will be our freedom that I will so proudly fight for. And I will never, ever submit to tyranny by disposing any one of our precious God given rights.
This is what it means to me to be a free American. Love of God, family, and country...a love handed down in succession from those who spilled blood for our freedom, so that all of us could be free. It is up to us now.