My "How I Became a Gun Nut" Story...

Jennifer asks, I respond (albeit a bit late...). Here's my story of how I "became" a gun nut.

I say "became" because I firmly believe that it wasn't something that I grew into; I think it was genetic. I inherited a lot of my firearms from my grandfather, who was a farmer, a machinist, and a town auxiliary police officer for more than 40 years in my town. He had two glass-front gun cabinets in his basement for as long as I can remember, with double-barreled shotguns, lever action rifles, a couple military surplus rifles ("Italian battle rifle. Only dropped once" was one of his favorite jokes about the Mannlicher-Carcano 6.5mm), and a handful of pistols.

I was always fascinated by the guns in the cases. The long arms, not so much, but the handguns, oh, they held me spellbound. The .45, especially (Grampy always called it "the 45", nothing else) was my very favorite - even as a pre-schooler I loved the 1911, I guess. He'd let me handle the empty firearms whenever I came over and drooled on the case, which was pretty much ever couple of days. He handed me an old Daisy pump-action BB gun one day when I was about 6 or 7 and I don't think the rabbits have come back to the woods behind my house yet.

I had learned gun safety at a very young age - growing up in a cop household, there were guns in my house no question about it. Dad had his two service revolvers, a 4" model 66 for full uniform and a 3" model 65 for plainclothes. By the time I was five, I knew that guns were not toys, that I shouldn't touch one of Dad's guns without asking first, how to load and unload all the guns in the house (Dad, being a cop, viewed guns as tools and little more and as such only had a handful of "working" guns), and how to handle the requests of friends to see "your Dad's cop gun" ("No, we can't see it now, but if you wait until Dad is home you can ask him.").

I was probably eight years old the first time Dad took me "shooting"; we were walking in the woods behind our house and Dad wanted to impress upon me that the guns in the safe and under the bed were very real and not toys, so he loaded up the Stevens .410 side-by-side and took me off into the woods. I think he was hoping to spot a rabbit - nothing like the object lesson of a shotgun tearing a rabbit into pieces to get the idea across that guns are not toys and can bring devastating results if not properly applied. We wandered around for a bit, not seeing much of anything in the way of wildlife, and as we headed in Dad decided to let me shoot the gun regardless.

I eagerly swung the barrel towards the old tree stump, lining up the gold bead with the center of the stump, and pulled the triggers. Yes, both. I wasn't prepared for the kick of the shotgun, although Dad was - he reached out and caught the Stevens before it hit the ground; I was so surprised by the recoil that it left my hands. Even as surprised as I was, the lesson hit home - this was something very real and very powerful. Undeterred, I would get my FID card as soon as I turned 15 so I'd be able to own these guns someday - my grandfather had promised his collection to me when he passed on.

Flash forward about ten years and a friend of mine asked if I'd ever been shooting. Other than the shotgun in the woods, I had fired no other firearms, and I was eager to shoot more. Off we went to the local public shooting range where I rented a .357 Magnum Smith & Wesson revolver (most likely a model 19) and a box of .38 Special and a box of .357 Magnum rounds. I ran through most of the box of .38 Special before I was confident enough for the more powerful .357 Magnum - which I then proceeded to fire off every last round and then get another box of 50, I was hooked! I tried out a .44 Magnum revolver next, opting to try the "Dirty Harry" single-hand shot first and bouncing the frame off my noggin. Ouch!

College (and beer and girls) took up most of my disposable income over the next few years, and it wasn't until I was a struggling graduate student that I rediscovered firearms. Grampy passed away, and Dad was kind enough to store his collection for me while I got the required permit for the handguns in Grampy's collection. Wanting to recapture the thrill of the .357 Magnum I fired when I first shot a handgun, I picked up a Ruger Security Six .357 Magnum as my first firearm purchase. Several more handguns would join the collection, but time and money made shooting a part-time event as I finished school, got a job, built a house, and started a family.

It was my family, ironically enough, that got me back into guns and shooting. September 11th happened as I cradled my 7 month old son in my arms, the horror of a world gone mad brought home live in my living room as I fed my son his bottle. While a handgun is pretty useless against a team of terrorists using an airplane as a missile, I became more and more aware of the evil that walked among us, and became determined to do whatever I could to keep my family safe. I bought the Snubbie from Hell as a CCW piece, practiced with it extensively, and have carried it (or one of its siblings from the safe) ever since.

I've made some of the greatest friends a person can have through the gunnie community. I've hosted and attended blogshoots and blogdinners and banquets and factory tours. I've invited folks over to my house, and been welcomed in countless homes across the northeast, the DC metroplex, Florida, and the Northcoast area too. I've met folks I am proud to call friend; I've walked the convention center floor in Charlotte, NC and Pittsburgh PA with many of them and had good times too numerous to count. My experience in the gunnie community is nothing short of amazing, and the best part of it all is that my story is the norm rather than the outlier.

My name is Jay G., and I'm proud to be a gun nut.

That is all.