THANKS, EVERYONE! FOR THE VERY VALUABLE AND INTERESTING DIALOGUE. My personal experience with guns?
I grew up in the 1930's, in a family of 8--a father, mother, 3 girls and 5 boys (I was #5). We owned two guns. One gun was a single-barreled shot gun. The other was a single-barreled 22 rifle.
Because of my gun-shy nature, I never became hunter. I left that to my older brothers. But I enjoyed going on hunting trips with them. My job? I helped with the cleaning of the guns and of the game.
Of course, in NL there was lots of fish, but because grassland was scarce, fresh meat was very expensive. Few, if any, had refrigeration. It was because of this that guns were needed to quickly kill any domestic animals and birds being raised--any goats, sheep, pigs, geese, ducks and chicken. A few had cattle--and getting them ready for the table. In addition, there was wild game--Moose, Caribou, deer, seals, rabbits and birds. Thus guns were essential to help maintain our very modest standard of living on
www.bellisland.netNOT ONE MURDER IN ALL ITS HISTORYInterestingly, while I lived on BI, the population got to be at least 10,000. This including about 2,100 rough and ready iron-ore miners. But, though there was at least one gun in every family, as of now, not one death on BI was caused by a gun-related murder.
However, over the years there have been gun, knife, snowmobile and rock-related accidents. One woman I knew lost an arm in a gun-related accident, in her own kitchen; a close contemporary of mine was killed by a rock that fell from a cliff we all climbed at one time or another; a young man died of an accidental, self-inflicted gun accident while mooring his boat; a nephew of mine (18) lost his life when he accidentally fell on a knife. Carelessly, in the process of cleaning out his father's boat, perhaps without thinking, he put the knife in his pocket. And another nephew lost his life driving his new snowmobile, one which he had just received as a Christmas present.
Me? Of course, I am still here. But I have had several close calls over the years. One happened when I was about 11, or 12 at the most. One that I remember, clearly, happened on a beautiful day in the Spring of 1942 when--not long after I had heard the loud squeals of a neighbour's pig--I was in the process of putting some whitewash on our fence.
It was not long after that I heard the familiar CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! ... sounds of a 22 rifle. Within inches from my head the slugs of several 22 bullets hit the fence with a ZIP!ZIP!ZIP! and a THUD!THUD!THUD!... When I turned around, the source of the sounds soon became clear to me. They came from the rifle of our neighbour, Jack, who lived just up the hill from our house. Generally speaking, the Kings thought of Jack, a widower, as a good neighbour.
Immediately, I dropped what I was doing, went in the house and told my father and brother, who happened to be home, what had happened. They came out and examined the fence and found several slugs. Then the three of us paid Jack a visit--minus recriminating attack.
Because by now Jack had sobered up, somewhat, my father and brother had no problem getting Jack to understand that the shots had come from his rifle and how fortunate it was that a tragedy had been avoided.
Jack readily told us what happened. Also, he openly admitted, and apologized, that he and his friend had both had more that one drink when, with the help of a 22 rifle and knife, they killed the pig, put it in scalding-hot water and then hung it on a tripod in the backyard to finish draining the blood.
It was the smell of blood that triggered the attention of some of the cats in the neighbourhood. And it was the cats that Jack had in mind when he pulled the trigger.
The good news is: The cats survived; I survived; pork was shared; apologies were made; lessons were learned and the neighbourhood was kept in tact.