Okay, so I have a confession to make.
I am reading the book "Redwall" to my younger son at bedtimes. I read it to him last night. And the night before that. And the night before that. I haven’t succesfully read him this book every single night – I’ve actually missed some. But that is not my confession.
I lost my temper with him, when he kept jumping up and down and acting like a monkey and wouldn’t settle down so I could read. I probably raised my voice, even. But that is not the confession.
I read to him while wearing a loaded, cocked-and-locked Kimber Ultra CDP II in a Milt Sparks VM2 on my right hip (my son was on my left, BTW). For those of you who don’t know, that’s a pistol. You can see it here – it’s the really sexy one at the bottom of the page. But that is not my confession.
It’s loaded with WWB 230gr, as that’s what I brought home from shooting at Wade’s yesterday. Yes, I know this isn’t proper defense ammo… but that is not my confession.
I enjoy reading to my lovely, wonderful, absolutely fantastic son. He’s a hoot, and I love sitting in bed with him – it’s my bed from when I was nine years old, now that I think about it – the bed with my initials carved into the head board (for which I was punished), my older son’s initials carved into the headboard (for which he was punished) and now quite possibly with my youngest sons initials carved into the headboard (for which, if they are there, and I should look, he must be punished, as if he isn’t it will totally ruin this meme)… none of these things are my confession.
I loved reading to him MORE because I was wearing that gun. THAT is my confession. It made me feel like more of a man – more human, more divine, more ME. It was me. I felt even more at home.
I’m quite certain that if you had told me, say a year ago, that I’d be wearing my pistol (as anyone who knows me will tell you – I don’t do anything "small" – the singularity of "pistol" will not last…) in bed while I read Redwall to my son, I’d have said that you are nuts. My wife has, shall we say, Strong Opinions. Me, bed, son, loaded gun. No way. And yet, here we are. She is, I think, a saint, or an angel, or something very much like one.
Anyway. I really, really like my pistol. I love the way it smells, the way it looks, how it feels sitting on my hip… I like how it shoots, how the insistent little chunks of metal go hurtling downrange with certaintity and yet without any intent, anymore than the sun has intent.