Bruce from West Oz
New member
This is just something that has been "brewing" inside me for a long time ....
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When I was a child--not yet a teenager--my father was my hero. He was a man among men, who loved me and my brothers and our mother without reservation. He was not afraid to cry when hurt or touched. He showed his love for us all.
He was also a Petty Officer Quartermaster Gunner in the Royal Australian Navy. To those who know the traditions of the British or Australian navies, Gunnery Branch was the absolute toughest branch, steeped in hundreds of years of history. He taught markmanship to others. He often was away on weekends "at the range".
I remember the day he handed me his old .22 single shot and a bullet, allowing me to load it and carry it (bolt open, of course).
On that day, I felt no longer like a child.
As soon as I was of legal age, Dad took me to the police station to apply for a licence for my own rifle -- a Remington Nylon 66 rimfire. The Police Sergeant, a big, sneering man, wanted to know who "the hell" was going to teach me to use it properly. Dad drew himself up to his full 5'9" and said, "I will". "What would you know about guns?" the sergeant asked.
Dad told him, quietly and succinctly. When he had finished, he also told him that his son was trustworthy and an adult in his eyes.
I got my licence from a subdued sergeant, and from that instant had a sense of responsibility. Society -- my society -- had said I could have a firearm. I had to be an adult; to do anything else would be to turn my back on those who trusted and loved me.
As I became older, I bought other guns, and those firearms became a symbol to me of something deeper -- something hard to put into words. But I never used them irresponsibly, or illegally, or recklessly -- and not without feeling that responsibility every time I took them out.
Then, after 30 years of gun ownership, without any more than a single parking ticket against my name, the government -- my government -- suddenly said I was no longer to be trusted; that I wasn't a decent, trustworthy, honest person. I couldn't have my semi-auto .22 or my pump action shotgun any more -- they were to be taken from me and crushed, destroyed. Sure, I got a cheque for them -- $280 for $700s worth of firearms that I didn't want to sell.
From that day, I no longer felt as tall as I once had. I was no longer allowed to feel as tall. My father, now old and frail, had to hand his rifle over to me, because as a pensioner he couldn't afford the compulsory $300 safe to store it in. As he said, "They gave me one of those 50 years ago and taught me to kill people with it. Now they don't trust me even to own one".
They made my father impotent in my eyes; they took away the responsibility I and he had willingly shouldered; the responsibility that had helped me grow into an adult -- and yes, in my case, into a man.
Those are the memories I can never forget; those are the memories and feelings I can never forgive.
That's why I'll continue to fight; and why I'll never forget or forgive.
I knew gun ownership here in Australia was always a privilege, not a right. But a privilege should never be revoked without a cause. And I -- and millions of other gunowners -- did nothing to have that privilege revoked. It was savage, misguided, and as the figures have shown, inappropriate.
It wasn't just pieces of wood and metal and plastic that were destroyed -- they also destroyed faith and trust and responsibility, and an entire way of life. And they destroyed my dad and all he stood for.
But they can't destroy my memories.
So that's why I'll keep on fighting any way I can.
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As I wrote this, I kept thinking of Dennis and some of his pieces. I wished I had his eloquence with words.
But I hope the message gets through. I don't wish to see any of you having to write similar pieces after you've lost your guns.
I hope you'll see now why I sometimes get a little twitter and bisted about "reasonable" gun laws and "reasonable" restrictions -- they have only one ultimate outcome.
B
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When I was a child--not yet a teenager--my father was my hero. He was a man among men, who loved me and my brothers and our mother without reservation. He was not afraid to cry when hurt or touched. He showed his love for us all.
He was also a Petty Officer Quartermaster Gunner in the Royal Australian Navy. To those who know the traditions of the British or Australian navies, Gunnery Branch was the absolute toughest branch, steeped in hundreds of years of history. He taught markmanship to others. He often was away on weekends "at the range".
I remember the day he handed me his old .22 single shot and a bullet, allowing me to load it and carry it (bolt open, of course).
On that day, I felt no longer like a child.
As soon as I was of legal age, Dad took me to the police station to apply for a licence for my own rifle -- a Remington Nylon 66 rimfire. The Police Sergeant, a big, sneering man, wanted to know who "the hell" was going to teach me to use it properly. Dad drew himself up to his full 5'9" and said, "I will". "What would you know about guns?" the sergeant asked.
Dad told him, quietly and succinctly. When he had finished, he also told him that his son was trustworthy and an adult in his eyes.
I got my licence from a subdued sergeant, and from that instant had a sense of responsibility. Society -- my society -- had said I could have a firearm. I had to be an adult; to do anything else would be to turn my back on those who trusted and loved me.
As I became older, I bought other guns, and those firearms became a symbol to me of something deeper -- something hard to put into words. But I never used them irresponsibly, or illegally, or recklessly -- and not without feeling that responsibility every time I took them out.
Then, after 30 years of gun ownership, without any more than a single parking ticket against my name, the government -- my government -- suddenly said I was no longer to be trusted; that I wasn't a decent, trustworthy, honest person. I couldn't have my semi-auto .22 or my pump action shotgun any more -- they were to be taken from me and crushed, destroyed. Sure, I got a cheque for them -- $280 for $700s worth of firearms that I didn't want to sell.
From that day, I no longer felt as tall as I once had. I was no longer allowed to feel as tall. My father, now old and frail, had to hand his rifle over to me, because as a pensioner he couldn't afford the compulsory $300 safe to store it in. As he said, "They gave me one of those 50 years ago and taught me to kill people with it. Now they don't trust me even to own one".
They made my father impotent in my eyes; they took away the responsibility I and he had willingly shouldered; the responsibility that had helped me grow into an adult -- and yes, in my case, into a man.
Those are the memories I can never forget; those are the memories and feelings I can never forgive.
That's why I'll continue to fight; and why I'll never forget or forgive.
I knew gun ownership here in Australia was always a privilege, not a right. But a privilege should never be revoked without a cause. And I -- and millions of other gunowners -- did nothing to have that privilege revoked. It was savage, misguided, and as the figures have shown, inappropriate.
It wasn't just pieces of wood and metal and plastic that were destroyed -- they also destroyed faith and trust and responsibility, and an entire way of life. And they destroyed my dad and all he stood for.
But they can't destroy my memories.
So that's why I'll keep on fighting any way I can.
--------------------------------------------
As I wrote this, I kept thinking of Dennis and some of his pieces. I wished I had his eloquence with words.
But I hope the message gets through. I don't wish to see any of you having to write similar pieces after you've lost your guns.
I hope you'll see now why I sometimes get a little twitter and bisted about "reasonable" gun laws and "reasonable" restrictions -- they have only one ultimate outcome.
B
