The Power of Smith and Wesson

    Family Dollar is a place of business that I infrequently visit.  It's not because I believe myself above such a thrifty institution, in fact, given my current financial crisis, I should ask them if I can live within their isles, amongst the cheap bath tissue and generic greeting cards.  The only Family Dollar located in the fair hamlet I call home is positioned next to the town's only Subway.  A couple of days ago, DU's stomach began growling, as his body has been forced to quickly accommodate to the rigors of the night shift, so we fled to the land of beautifully crafted sandwiches.  Without really thinking about it, I grabbed my new leather holster containing a shiny Smith and Wesson 38 special just moments before I retreated from our log home.

   The newest addition to our gun safe is the product of a serendipitous occurrence.  My dad, being well informed about all things gun related with a small artillery of his own, informed me that a part of my Christmas present this year would be the funds that would allow for the purchase of my very first pistol.  DU and I had been shopping around for the perfect pistol for months.  I had settled upon a 38 special, not only because of its ease in shooting but also because the bullets are generally cheaper than any other.  I also had decided that I wanted a revolver.  I don't know what it is about revolvers that ignite my wild-west sentimentalities but all I know is that I feel like a gunslinger out of a John Wayne movie anytime I shoot one. 

    Our local outdoor haunt, God's Country, is currently in the midst of moving, as their operations have grown larger than their britches allow.  DU had heard they were putting on some great sales so we decided to hightail it on over.  Imagine our surprise when everything, and I mean everything, was buy one, get one 50% off.  I watched as a patron bought two top-of-the-line Kimbers for less than a grand.  Least say, we left the store with more than we had intended, including my beautiful Smith and Wesson Airweight 38 special revolver.

    Before this, I've never owned a pistol, nor had I ever really wanted to own one.  Given my extensive history with long guns, namely shotguns and muzzleloaders, I always felt that I would be a happy girl if I could just tote my 12 gauge around with me, in an extremely oddly-shaped purse.  A relationship with guns, as well as anything that can easily end the life of you or someone you love, at least for me, is a loving one that needs a nurturing touch and a whole lot of attention.  My first gun was a 20 gauge Mossberg.  It is an average firearm for every reason.  It has a stock, it has a pump, a scope, and, of course, a trigger.  I bought it for $250 at the local country store. I took it home and placed it in a corner.  There it sat for days, I, a newly minted huntress, still a little apprehensive when it came to all things lead propelled, walked carefully around it, least it suddenly decided of its own free will to take aim.

    I killed my first deer with that gun and took my first shot at a goose with it, which made it more than a gaggle of metal parts and synthetic wood.  When I eventually graduated to my Stoeger 12 gauge, I began to know how it feels when military personal say that their rifle is an "extension" of their bodies.  I love that gun, as it brought home my first duck and a whole truckload of geese that just wouldn't die (this is no hyperbole, friends.  The geese in North Carolina are bionic, they just will not die, even after having their necks rung multiple times).  But as much as I love that Stoeger, my Mossberg is still sitting behind the door of our bedroom, acting as my personal body guard, willing to face whatever comes through our door.

   Recently, a woman made headlines after shooting an intruder with her shotgun in order to ensure the safety of her infant child.  After calling 911, she asked the dispatcher if it was "okay" to shoot the intruder if the man decided to break her door down.  In accordance with Oklahoma law, it is legal to shoot an "unauthorized person person that is in your home...The law provides you the remedy and sanctions the use of deadly force".  The dispatcher told the frightened teen that he couldn't tell her what to do but that she should do "what you have to do to protect your baby".  The girl shot the intruder and scared off his accomplice who later turned himself into the police.  The gun-toting mother and her child were unharmed, saved by the grace of God, that and a little gunpowder.

    This story made this huntress extremely proud, especially because the attention this story has received has been nothing but supportive.  I expected droves of anti-gun-activists and the like to be driven out of their liberal hovels in order to illustrate ways the girl could have saved her life, without the use of firepower or lead.  One supposes that she could have simply asked her intruders to wait patiently by the door until the authorities got around to getting to her house.  She also could have asked politely for her attacker to pretty please put the knife down and scurry now, ya hear?  She could've put her life and the life of her child into the hands of nameless uniformed officers who would've gotten there just in time to see the assailants flee but she took her safety in her own hands.  As she stated to NBC, "there is nothing more dangerous than a woman with a child".

     After munching on a delicious assortment of ham, turkey, provolone, banana peppers (which are positively delicious, might I add) pickles, lettuce and a little spinach, I decided that a trip to the Family Dollar was necessary in order to procure items for a friend's birthday.  It is my own little tradition to create larger-than-life cards for loved one's days of birth.  These cards are always hand drawn, filled with glitter, and above all else, absurd to the point of insanity.  I paused briefly at the door while my fellow huntress, Lauren and her daughter pursued the shelf of discounted Christmas candy.  I read carefully through each of the signs on the door, looking for the tell-tale NO FIREARMS ALLOWED monicker.  Blessedly, the store didn't have such a sign so I waltzed right in.

    The counter girl, no more than seventeen glanced briefly at my holster before motioning towards the craft isle.  I smiled, thanked her for her help, and she smiled in return.  I gathered gigantic pieces of poster board, vibrant markers and glitter into my arms like a greedy 8-year old on Christmas morning.  We moved towards the checkout and as we chatted about the wedding dress I had found, I noticed a disturbance out of the corner of my eye.  Two youths, dressed entirely in black with raccoon-eye paint dashed across their lids were shuffling through the store, stuffing things into their oversize pockets.  They were making comments about those in the store and as they turned their gazes upon me, I felt their eyes dart to my hip.  When their eyes traveled back to the pistol's owner, they emptied their pockets and left. 

    I have never felt more safe or empowered in my entire life and I have Smith and Wesson to thank.