How do you feel when you see a photo of a child holding a gun? Does it depend on your age or where you grew up, urban or rural? In 1942, when this photo was taken, it was not uncommon for teenage boys raised on a farm to own guns. Yes, the boy in this photograph is not a teenager. I was nine years old when “Santa” gave me a .410 shotgun and a .22 rifle. I know I was too young; I will admit that. The guns had a major effect on me, but more about that later.
Attitudes have changed since 1942. A photo of a young boy with gun was acceptable then. However it is deemed inappropriate now. This photo of me holding a shotgun was selected to be the cover of my book because it represents the era of the book’s contents. The photo has been judged unacceptable because of all the gun violence occurring in the twenty-first century, which I totally understand.
Dad liked to hunt and fish. His joy was not in the kill, rather it was his way of relaxing, gaining solitude, and enjoying nature; it also put food on the table. We lived paycheck-to-paycheck, so extra protein was always welcome. I was a failure as Dad’s fishing partner as a kid. I was more energetic than the Energizer Bunny. Dad loved to sit on a boulder for hours at a time, his only movements were to reel in the fish and cast out for the next one. After trying to sit still for fifteen minutes, with a fishing pole in my hands and not catching fish, I was up running around, jumping from rock to rock, skipping rocks across the water or swimming. Anything but sitting sill and fishing. Dad would yelling, “You’re scaring all the fish away!” The guns were to see if I could be his hunting buddy. Ol‘ Energizer Bunny here did not make that goal either. I did make it through the lesson on handling, safety, care, and cleaning of the rifles. Then and only then, I was allowed to fire the guns.
Being as untethered as I was, when I wanted to go get some target practice, I got one of my guns and told Mom that I was going to the river to work on my target practice. I filled a cloth flour sack with cans—we were saving for the war effort—and tied it on my bike rack. I laid my gun across the handlebars and biked down to the river. I can hear you thinking, What the hell was his mother thinking? As an adult, I would have thought the same thing. I would not allow my kids that liberty. But! It was 1942.
One day when I went target practicing, I came across a large flock of doves. I thought I would surprise Mom and Dad with doves for dinner. With my first shot, a dove hit the ground—I was devastated. I felt so bad that I took a Spam can out of the flour sack and used it to dig a grave. That was the first and last time I ever pointed a gun at any living creature. No, I am not a vegetarian. I can’t explain why it doesn’t bother me that someone else killed what I eat, not even to myself. I assume it was growing up on a farm and witnessing all kind of animals being butchered. It was a part of a subsistence farm life.
When I received a draft notice for the Korean conflict, I joined the Navy because I knew that in the Marines or Army I would be expected shoot the “enemy” and I knew I could not do that. Besides, four years in the Navy with three hot meals a day, a hot shower, and a clean bed every night was better than two years in the Marines or Army sleeping in a foxhole, eating cold C-Rations, and bathing when it rained hard.
Both guns had the firing pins removed and they became theater props.