Musings about Newtown tragedy

Musings Dec 16 thoughts on waking

Do we have guns because we are a violent nation, or are we a violent nation because we have guns?

Can the bullets that killed those 20 children be traced to the manufacturer?  Can the manufacturer of the guns used in the Newtown murders be identified?  This ought to be made public, those manufacturers should have bragging rights; this knowledge could be a real boost to their business.

They say: Guns don’t kill people, people do.

Then it must follow:  Bombs don’t kill people, people do.

When Palestinians find themselves bombarded with bombs stamped “Made in USA,” they don’t have to blame the USA the bombs, because it is not those bombs that are killing and maiming them, it is Israel. 

Images of—inherent? or cultured? sense of violence.  During the Israeli bombing of Lebanon a few years ago, there were photos of Israeli school children being given a tour of a base that was stocked with bombs, and they were being encouraged to sign the bombs, that would later be dropped on little children like themselves.  Oh, then, remembering our own Governor Manchin, on a tour of Israel about the same time, signing a bomb, “Sending you to hell from almost heaven West Virginia.”

But I was once a gun enthusiast.  Remembering, back in the 50s, when all my children were young, at Christmas Santa brought them an assortment of guns—holsters with revolvers for the boys, rifles, and even cute little pearl-handled derringers for the girls (no sexism here).  Probably all cap-shooters.  Of course, they played their cowboys and Indians, or Civil War, or whatever they were into those days, but I cautioned them never to aim at each other, never to pretend to shoot each other, only shoot imaginary enemy.   And they could be shot by imaginary enemies, but not by each other.  Clearly I did not want them to even imagine shooting a real, live person, much less their own sibling.  Subsequently, I turned completely against play guns, and as well, am against violent video games.

When we lived in Virginia, late 60s early 70s, the older children having left home by then, Amy and Tim in late adolescence or early teens, and four little girls, their father bought a rifle and brought it down one weekend, guests and family having a little target practice, I even shooting at tin cans, I wasn’t half bad.    But later when I put it away, I put the rifle in one place, the bullets in another, the trigger, or lock, in another—no one else knew where everything was. 

Then, on Christmas Day, late afternoon , a friend called that her little boy was sick and could I take them to the emergency room?  While we were waiting there, someone came in carrying a young woman, clad in nightgown and robe, dying of a gunshot wound.  She had been recovering from the flu, and her boyfriend came to visit, bringing along his new gun, a Christmas gift, I believe it was a 22 pistol.  While showing it off to her, he accidentally shot her.

When I got home, I told Tim to sell the rifle and buy a fishing rod.  Which he did.

When my daughter, Cori, was 15 months old, in 1961, she spent eight days in the hospital with asthmatic bronchitis.  This included Christmas Day.  I remember that on that day, as we sat around in the living room, all behaving normally, the lights twinkling on the tree, Christmas music on the phonograph, the children opening their gifts, their father and I all of a sudden looked at each other and saw that tears were rolling down the other’s cheek, as well as our own.  Although we knew she would be coming home in a day or two.  How much more the suffering now, of the parents of those 20 children from Sandy Hook,--can one even imagine them getting through Christmas Day, the holidays?  We cannot possibly comprehend their sorrow, their grief, their bereavement.  And what words can we possibly offer them that will alleviate their pain.