In Defense of Brother Heat - A friend, indeed - appreciation of firearms

National Review, April 17, 2000 by Dave Shiflett

LET us now speak highly of guns. This is a major provocation, to be sure, just as speaking well of wine was once a certain invitation to a rhetorical scuffle, and perhaps a visit from a platoon of prune-sucking matrons who needed a stiff drink almost as much as they needed a tumble in the hayloft-with spurs.

Yet it must be done, for the simple reason that a huge number of Americans do not know the glory of guns. Instead, they are petrified of them, and their fears leave them susceptible to bogus arguments, such as the assertion that there are a quarter-billion guns in private ownership due to a misreading of the Constitution, or that guns exist only to kill people. Were the latter true, of course, most of us would have been shot dead long ago, but the larger point is that these sentiments may eventually succeed in sending the gun to the gallows. Hysteria has convicted more than one innocent party, and there's a growing mob baying for the head of Brother Heat.

Before illuminating the glories of the gun-whose other names include Peacemaker, Counselor, Widow's Advocate, Equalizer, Mother's Protector, possum-plinker, and piece-a defender is required to say that it is very bad when a criminal leaves a loaded pistol in a crackhouse that is later used to shoot a schoolchild, as recently occurred in Michigan. Similarly, when glory-seeking nihilists exterminate their classmates, as two did in my old neighborhood of Littleton, Colorado, agony is our only companion-save for one. No matter how odd the circumstances, or how malicious and premeditating the perpetrators, it is said that guns are to blame and we ought to get rid of them.

As befitting this subject, a sermon appears near the end. But this is a romance, and it began long ago.

My family is from gun stock, and as a result I've owned guns since I was quite small, which is the case with many of my friends. Perhaps that's because we grew up in the South, where guns were more commonplace than umbrellas, and where there were many more rifles than marlins hanging above fireplaces. This reflected the spirit of the region, which maintained a high respect for self-sufficiency and individual freedom, and also recognized one could not drive off an intruder with a dead fish.

Our homes were very much like miniature states. The agriculture sector was found in the pantry, icebox, and perhaps a garden; the education sector in the bookshelves; the population sector in the marriage bed; and the religious sector in the Bible. As for the defense sector, it was scattered all over the house. A father's closet was likely to contain several shotguns-ours had four or five, including the set of Browning semi-autos in 12, 16, and 20 gauges owned by Dad, my older brother, and myself. In a nightstand by my father's bed was a .45- caliber semi-auto. I would like to think my mother packed a derringer, but that is probably wishful thinking.

We did not outsource our self-defense. We knew nothing of the argument, popular today, that the danger of having guns around outweighs the chances of being set upon in the night. Our guiding principle was that relying on others for your family's defense was a basic abdication of responsibility-one more way of going on the dole. Plus, it was plain stupid. Police cannot be held responsible for arriving long after your throat has been slit. They will tell you that if you are dumb enough to have to ask. From our perspective, the person who hands over such a central aspect of existence has something of the serf's mentality, which used to be much more of an insult than it is today.

When I went off to college, I took the 20-gauge with me. A true fowling piece, this featherweight was perfect for shooting quail, which is not the same as saying it filled the game bag. Back then, we knew that guns don't kill quail. It really took a good aim to pull that off. Such commonsense observations are now considered heretical. In any case, my gun had plenty of company, as several classmates had brought their own pieces along, including a roommate with a .22-caliber pistol. Boys being boys, and it sometimes being rainy outside, we set about devising a way to improve our small-arms talents close to home.

Let me state without reservation that there are few fellowship opportunities to match that of a dormitory-room firing range. It is also my impression that such opportunities probably no longer exist. For historical purposes, our backstop was a set of dresser drawers, placed across from a sofa on which the shooters sat, often cheek by jowl, chatting amiably while reloading and, at reasonable hours not often falling before noon, sipping beer. In modern terms, this somewhat unique and slightly taboo activity bonded its participants, and there was very little danger involved. Range rules allowed only .22 shorts, which came to rest in the bureau's drawers or within its back panel, and which in any case were incapable of penetrating the skull of anyone present.

Unfortunately, the college dean, who was an alarmist ahead of his time, shut us down after a fellow marksman was observed (by the dean) plinking a shrill robin from a bathroom window. A similar offense today, it seems safe to say, would at the very least result in ouster- without refund. Those were very carefree days.