Upon noticing that there is a surge in violence in lovely Santa Barbara, and discussion about whether or not to carry a gun was sensible, I started thinking about my childhood in upstate New York. My father was not just a gun collector, but a gun fanatic. My father worshipped guns. I swear he was a cowboy in a past life. My first hand-me-down was my brother’s 16-gauge Remington side-by-side. I was five. The gun was taller than me. But as my father’s child, I had no choice.
Our family events rotated around opening days. For opening day of pheasant season, I was up at 2 a.m. to start eggs, bacon, and coffee for the ascending hordes of men—usually about 75 to 150 men at our home for breakfast at 3 a.m. For deer season, it was a neighborhood event to see my brothers come home with a stag (nothing less than 12 points) and clean it in the front yard. The family motto was “If you kill it, you clean it!” All my friends would gather to see my older brother explain the ins and outs of a deer.
My father was a widower, so my brothers became my babysitters when Dad stepped out. At that time, drinking age in New York was 18, which of course meant 16. (My brothers practically built the Anchor Bar.) So what did my brothers do?