October 7, 2014--Midcoast: L.L. Bean's Gun Shop (Concluded)

In the gun shop, with Rona in tow, I moved moved more confidently than earlier toward the rack of 22s. "See, these are higher caliber," I said, feeling at least knowledgeable enough to point out the difference between them and the 30-30s. "But they're not for me. They're for real hunters. Not someone like me who's interested in target practice and small game. You know, your groundhog."

"To tell you the truth I'd rather trap and release him. After all--"

"I agree. I was just thinking about Ben and Willy needling me."

Standing by the rack of 22s was a salesmen with Nick on his name tag. "Can I help you with something?"

"Not really," I stammered. "We're just browsing. I mean I am. Rona's my wife. She just came along for the ride. You know, moral support." I couldn't stop myself from chattering on.

"My wife likes guns too," he said, looking very serious. "She carries."

"Carries?" I asked.

"A weapon. Concealed. We live out in the woods, deep in the woods, and there are all sorts of pretors back there. Both the four and two-legged kind." I thought I saw the beginnings of a smile. "She has a license of course. I don't want her not to be armed. She needs to protect herself."

"Well, we're, I mean I'm thinking about," I emphasized the thinking, "about maybe a 22 or something. I had a BB gun when I was a kid but don't know anything about weapons or guns or whatever." I was sounding silly to myself.

"We can take care of you," he said, gesturing at the long rack of 22s. "We have quite a collection here." He sounded proud, proprietary.

"These all used? I mean second-hand? Previously owned?" He nodded. "Why's that? I mean, don't most people want new guns?"

"Not anyone who knows about 'em. Unless you want to pay thousands. As they say, they're not makin' 'em like they used to."

"That's sadly true about a lot of things," I said.

"I'm not happy about that either, and a lot of other things," he said, shrugging. "But that's another story for another time because you're here to think about a 22." I was happy he picked up on the fact that I was thinking not shopping. "But I'm happy to help, to answer any questions you might have. Take as long as you like. My time is your time. The little lady too." For the first time, looking at Rona, he smiled.

"Well, so as not to waste your time, if I wanted to buy one--and I mean only if--could you sell one to me? I'm from New York and was wondering--"

"No problem at all," he said, sounding cheery. "We sell 'em to people from all over. Where you from in New York."

"Manhattan," I said.

"In New York City, right?"

"Yes," I said, trying also to sound cheery.

"Then I'm afraid we have a problem," he felt deflated. "We can't sell 'em to New York City residents. Or to folks from Washington, DC, and a few other places. Sorry about that," again he shrugged. "The law's the law. And I respect that no matter what I feel about it."  He began to cough and sneeze. "I have this darn cold," he said covering his nose and mouth. "Don't get too close. I think I'm past being infectious but want to be sure--"

"I appreciate that," Rona said. "Are you taking anything?"

"Naw. Nothing seems to help. Only time."

"We won't be keeping you then," I said. "As I mentioned, I was just thinking and now that I know I can't well--"

"But you can. You really can. It's in the Constitution. It's our right. All you need to do when you get back to the city," he sneezed again and Rona took a step backwards, "is get one of those forms you need to get approval for a firearm. Just follow the instructions and turn it in. They'll check you out and I'll sure in a week or two they'll say it's fine. As long as you never committed a felony or anything."

I shook my head, "Only a few parking tickets.

"And you're only wanting a 22. Not an Uzi for God's sake." He seems a little disgusted thinking about this, my rights and, I was sure, New York City and what that represented to him, living armed in the woods.

"You know, after I finished with the service--I was in for three tours--my wife and I lived in the city. For 18 months or so. I'll bet that surprises you." In fact it did but I didn't say anything.

"I was working for a private security company. We loved it there. Best year-and-a-half of my life." I was, to say the least, not expecting this. "We lived in Washington Heights and whenever we had any free time took the subway downtown and enjoyed the restaurants and movies. We even took in a few Broadway shows. But Sarah, that's my wife, got pregnant and we both felt Maine was a better place to raise kids. Her folks had some land they let us have. About 12 acres. We built a house and then moved up here. The rest, as they say, is history."

"I agree," Rona said, seemingly nonplussed, "Maine feels like a better place for children."

"But we try to get back to the city for a long weekend every year," he said. "Maybe the next time we're there I'll help you with that application."

With that he laughed and wheezed at the same time.

I whispered to Rona, "I can't wait to tell Willy and Ben about this."

October 6, 2014--Midcoast: L.L. Bean's Gun Shop (Part 1)

Willy asked, "Have you given any more thought to getting yourself a weapon?"

Exasperated because we had been down this path before, I said, "I'm not thinking weapon but a 22 rifle or gun, if you prefer." He looked at me skeptically.

"In fact, we're going to Freeport on Wednesday, to L.L Bean. Rona wants to look for new gardening clogs and I could use a couple of belts. And, I thought, while there--"

"All the way there for belts? What kind of belts are these? Must be something verrrry special." He was making fun of me again as he has an occasional inclination to do.

But I was happy to not be talking about guns. "Well, I bought a belt on line--this one--I like the braided ones. And it was made in England. Plus, they're on sale." I slid out of my seat to show him. "Nice, no?"

"To me a belt's a belt." In fact, he wears suspenders. "And while there? That's what you said, didn't you--'while there'? What's that about?" He was smily slyly.

"I thought I'd look at their rifles," I lowered my eyes, "22s. For targets and--"

"And get after Rona's famous groundhog."

"Also there's a deer munching on her phlox so--"

"So you're thinking of shooting the deer with a 22?" He guffawed. "They wouldn't even feel it. If you want to--"

"I don't want to kill it. Just make it unpleasant so he'll think twice about coming back."

"Make it unpleasant," he was mocking me, "This I'd have to see."

Ben winked at Willy.

*  *  *

It was gray and drizzly Wednesday morning and so we headed first to Brunswick for a guilty-pleasure tray of Frosty's donuts and then on to Freeport.

After downing half a dozen we drove the remaining ten miles to L.L. Bean and happened to park right by the entrance closest to the gun shop. Truly, it was the only open parking space.

"Tomorrow's your birthday," once inside Rona said, holding me by my arms so she could get close and look directly in my eyes, "So take all the time you want," I knew what she was referring to, "I'll be up in the shoe department and when I'm done I'll sit and wait for you. Even if it takes you an hour or more. We're not in any hurry." She kissed me and disappeared between the racks where camouflaged outfits were displayed.

Alone, I wondered if I should get something camouflaged too. A cap at least. Maybe with a 22 of my own I might want to do some walking in the woods and so, to be less visible, I should . . .

But I checked myself and decided first-things-first and drifted obliquely toward the gun displays so as not to make it seem I was doing so intentionally. I was pretending to myself that it would be by accident that I found myself among the shotguns and other firearms.

I was surprised to see that most all the guns were displayed on open racks, barrel end up, and that customers were comfortable, on their own, without the assistance of salesmen, rooting among them and occasionally removing one from the rack and hoisting it to their shoulders, sighting and aiming at imaginary targets in the shop--a stuffed deer head, the L.L. Bean sign, a rack of ammunition. Careful, though, not to point the guns toward customers even though they were secured by what appeared to be locks on the triggers.

The rifles were arranged by size, by caliber--22s, 30-30s, 30-40s, shotguns. I made my way quickly from the larger caliber ones to the rack of 22s. They looked like real guns, not souped-up BB guns, and I felt confident I would be able to handle them. Not just in the gun shop but out by our house and perhaps even in the woods.

I looked at the price tags on a few but was nervous about the thought of picking one up much less trying out how it felt tucked in against my right shoulder. Would it seem alien? Even unexpectantly comfortable? But I did think they were expensive. At least $300 with some approaching $1,000, and that they all appeared in prefect shape but used. Looking around I didn't see any new ones behind the service counter. I'll have to find out about this. Just from curiosity of course, because I was quickly coming to feel that even something as minimalist as a 22 wasn't for me. I'm not really a gun person, I said to myself. Not even a 22-person.

With this realization, seemingly out of nowhere, I was swept with a wave of palpitations strong enough for me to fear I might be about to pass out. To steady myself I held onto the checkout counter, wedged between stacks of ammo. This whole gun business, I thought, is too much for me. Belts and gardening clogs are what I can handle.

I reluctantly admitted I was not man enough for this. That I was too old to even have gun-owner fantasies. I needed to get out of there, look at the belts or, better, seek Rona's comfort in the women's shoe department.

"You look terrible," she said, sounding alarmed when she spotted me weaving unsteadily toward her. She was walking about testing a pair of clogs. "Are you OK? Did something happen?"

"I'm fine," I lied. My heart was still racing. "Keep shopping. I'll sit right here," I collapsed in a chair, "Those look nice." I wanted to avoid talking about what had happened and how I was feeling.

She moved quickly to sit by me and put her arms around my shoulders. "I can tell that something happened in the gun shop that you don't want to talk about."

"After more than 30 years together I can't get away with anything," I said and took a deep breath to stifle my surging emotions.

"Tell me, love."

"I don't know what happened. I wanted to look around and even checked out a few guns. 22s. But began to feel faint when I thought about taking one from the rack."

"You can just do that? On your own? Pick up a gun?"

"I was surprised too," I panted, "Even kids were doing that. They seemed so comfortable. I, on the other hand--" I couldn't complete my thought.

"That's OK. I know this is a complicated thing for you and--"

"I had no idea how complicated. The worst of it," I confessed, "is feeling I'm getting too old and . . ."

"I know it's almost your birthday but--"

"But, that's how I feel. And not being comfortable with even a puny 22, well that didn't make me feel too good either, or intrepid. In fact, the opposite." I was nearly in tears.

Rona pulled me to her, gently stroking my back. "Did anyone offer to help?"

"Not really," I said, now composed. "There were salesmen there but they didn't seem interested in helping me or anyone for that matter."

"I suppose since most of the people who shop there are familiar with guns and--"

"The other customers sure felt like that. I guess I was feeling embarrassed that I didn't know the difference between a bolt-action rifle and a--"

"I'm impressed that you know about bolt-action, whatever that is," Rona smiled and kissed me on the cheek, trying to restore my pride.

"To tell you the truth I'm not sure what that is. What it means."

"But I am concerned about this feeling-old business." Rona was attempting to calm me, to make what had happened seem normal. Nothing all that much to worry about.

"I'm really disappointed in myself," I said. "You know, in spite of what Willy and Ben think I'm really only thinking about it. Buying one. I'm not a gun person but--"

"But still you'd like to be able to handle yourself better, for example, in the gun shop."

"Exactly! What's the big deal? I mean--"

"Well, it is a big deal if you're experiencing it that way.

"If you're willing to come with me--if that isn't too babyish a thing to ask--I'd like to try again. Maybe I could handle it better and--"

"Even though I'd be with you, you'd feel better about yourself?"

"Something like that." I smiled. My heart rate was pretty  much back to normal.

(End of Part 1)

September 25, 2014--Willy, Ben, and Me: Ruger SR-762

"Ben told me you're in the market for a 22."

"Not exactly. But I am thinking about it."

"Glad to hear," Willy said with a  broad grin, "To be a real Mainer a man needs to be armed."

"Not armed," I said, "But, you know, for target practice and Rona has a few groundhogs tearing up her perennial bed that I'd like to scare off."

"Scare or shoot?" Ben asked.

"Maybe give 'em a jolt," I said, "I'm not sure I'm into killing them."

"There's no other way," Willy insisted. "They don't scare."

"I suppose we could try to trap them," I thought.

"What's your problem? Jolt 'em, scare 'em, trap 'em, kill 'em. It's all about the same thing."

"I'm not so sure I agree. Though since I'll never get to be a good shot if I try to just wing 'em I'll probably miss or if I do hit 'em I'm as likely to kill 'em as anything."

We went back and forth about this one morning over coffee and then a few days later Willy gave me one of his magazines, "Just to look through" he said. "Don't show this to your New York friends," he whispered, "But this may help you think about what weapon to buy."

He slid an issue of American Rifleman surreptitiously to me across the banquette we shared. As if to hide the transfer from the other diners.

"Not a weapon," I cringed, "A rifle. A 22. You know, not much more than a BB gun. But thanks for this. Though from the cover it looks like it does feature weapons."

There was a closeup picture of something menacing-looking called Heavy Metal--Ruger's Sr-762 replete with a dozen or so bullets scattered about that looked as if they could pierce armor. "Not exactly what the Fourth Amendment is about," I said under my breath while flipping through the pages.

"There he goes again," Ben said with an gesture of exasperation. "If the Founders were writing the Constitution today they'd include semi-automatic and automatic weapons."

There was that "weapons" word again. "I'm not so sure," I said. Wasn't that constitutional provision so the new United States could have a 'well-regulated militia'? Since at the time there wasn't a standing army and so--"

"And so," Willy said, as if to complete my thought, "if necessary men would be called up and they'd have a weapon of their own to bring along with them. To fight the English and Indians and who knows who else."

"But now?" I asked, "We have a standing army, God knows, and a navy and air force and marines. When you join up, they supply the weapons. Guns, tanks, ammunition, everything. You don't show up with your own Rugger SR-762, whatever that is."

"The Ruger's not for that," Willy said, again with his voice lowered.

"What's it for, then?"

We usually avoid discussions of this kind, but I wasn't that morning in the mood for that. I was upset with what was written about and, more, advertised for sale in the American Rifleman, especially after I noticed it's a publication of the NRA, the National Rifle Association.

"Let me read what your magazine has to say about this weapon." I was unusually worked up. For the most part I try to remain calm and rational when having discussions about controversial subjects with Willy and Ben, looking for areas of common ground. For, among other reasons, because I like them. But the Ruger SR-762 was testing my restraint.

I read to them--

Breathe in, breathe out. Squeeze, squeeze, squee (sic)--bang! I rode the recoil back onto the target just in time to catch the contrail from my bullet making a steep right curve toward it and then vanishing, leaving only a gray splatter on the red steel gong. The target was hidden halfway up the face of the opposing hill, across a ravine and 10 to 15 degrees below my position. After what seemed like minutes, the distinct "thud" sound reached my ears, confirming what I had already witnessed: a first round hit at 800 yds.

"So?" Willy wondered.

"So, tell me what this is about--shooting across ravines at targets 800 yards away. That doesn't sound like hunting to me."

"What does it sound like?" Ben asked, sounding genuinely curious about what I had to say.

"It sounds like combat. Maybe even sniping."

Willy and Ben exchanged a glance then lowered their eyes to avoid mine. They remained unusually quiet.

"Look," I said, feeling awkward, "It's good writing. Really good. I'll give you that. But this is not about target practice or hunting or sportsmanship. As I said, it sounds like what the military trains its recruits to do. And take a look at the picture of the Ruger." I held the magazine up to them. "I'm for sure no expert but it looks more like an AK 47 to me than a hunting or target rifle."

"You're not right about that," Willy said. "An AK 47 has--" I cut him off.

"Well, in your magazine," I underscored the your again, "there are ads for AK 47s. Here. Take a look at both weapons. There is a strong resemblance between the two."

Ben had taken the magazine from me. He was thumbing through it, leaving Willy on his own to deal with cantankerous me.

"If you want to fit in here, or for that matter in most of America, you have to get comfortable with sportsmen and hunters and--"

"I'm quite comfortable with all that," I said to Willy, "My problem is not with them but with these high-powered weapons in the hands of dangerous people. That has nothing to do with hunting and clomping around in the woods."

"Look at this," Ben said, reentering the fray, but smiling.

"What's that?" I was happy to change the subject. I had said my piece.

"An ad for a 22. The sort of rifle you're looking to buy."

"I'm not looking to buy one; I'm thinking about it."

"It's made by Ruger too," Ben said. He passed the magazine back to me.

"Does it have a wooden stock?" I asked. "If I get one--and remember I'm only thinking about it--it has to have a wood stock. I don't want a weapon, I mean a rifle with a cheesy plastic one."

"That one does," Willy joined in. Now he had the magazine and folded it back to the page with the 22 ad. Tussling was over. He was again being helpful.

He read to me--

50 YEARS LATER and the Ruger 10/22 is still "the ultimate in logical design." 

"It's a commemorative issue," Willy added, again turning the magazine to me. "A limited addition. I know you're only thinking, but if you decide to get one, I recommend this one to you." He winked at me. "And it's perfect for getting after Rona's groundhogs."

Ruger SR-762

January 9, 2014--The 2040 Diner

We had just placed our order at one of our favorite on-the-road places, the 2040 Diner in Fredericksburg, Virginia--eggs and grits for Rona, and the $7.95 county ham special for me--when the owner plopped an overflowing plate of eggs and sides on the counter and himself on a stool.

"That looks good," Rona said, sipping her tea.

He turned in our direction, not responding, looking annoyed by her interrupting what must be a daily ritual.

I thought, "Here we go. We're already in trouble."

"Is that lemon you're squeezing on your eggs?" Rona asked, ignoring his ignoring us.

Without turning he nodded and grunted something indecipherable.

"I've never seen that before."

I mouthed to Rona to "Cool it."

But she persisted, "I never tried that. I love lemon and maybe I'd also like it on eggs."

"Very Grek," he said with a thick accent, squeezing another half lemon all over everything on his plate.

"Grek?" Rona said.

"Grek," he turned fully in our direction, "Grek, Greek. Dot's me. Grek."

"The lemon is very Mediterranean," Rona smiled at him.

At that, with effort, he lifted himself off the stool and lumbered in our direction, hunched over with his arms dangling at his side.

"Lemon we have with everything in Grek." His accent thickened as he neared us.

I was beginning to feel nervous. We were the only customers. 8:30 is often a quiet time in diners that cater mainly to locals--late for those headed to work, too early for older folks, and too off the tourist route for travelers. Usually, exactly our favorite kind of place.

But at the 2040 I was beginning to feel threatened. The two waitresses, who looked as if they had worked there for decades, watched, smiling, which partially reassured me.

"You Brooklyn?" he asked.

"What?" I finally joined in, thinking that might ease the situation. He stood pressing his huge stomach against our table, still with his arms dangling and swinging simian-like.

"Brooklyn? From dare?"

"Yes," Rona chirped, the caffeine in her tea taking hold. "Both of us." She included me in her sweeping gesture.

He glared at me and pointed, laboriously hoisting one of his thick arms. "Him too?"

"Yes, he and me. We were both born there. Are you also from Brooklyn?"

"Grek," he said.

"So how did you know we--"

"Sound just like your mayor. Bloom. Both you and him." He dismissed me with a wave of his massive hand.

"Bloomberg," I said, taking a chance by correcting him.

"No gut."

"He's not our mayor anymore," Rona informed him. "As of January 1st we have a new one. De Blasio."

"De who?"

"Bill De Blasio."

"What kind of name dat?"

"I'm not sure," Rona said. "Maybe Italian?" I nodded.

"Where does he stand on guns?" His accent miraculously gone. "Not like Bloomberg I hope."

"I assume--" I cut myself off, stunned by the change in the way he spoke and not clear where this might be headed.

"He doesn't understand us." What happened to all the Grek business, I wondered. He sounded like someone more from Virginia than Athens.

"In what way?" Rona asked, eating away at her eggs and grits as if not noticing. I was feeling substantially relieved and took to enjoying the wonderful country ham.

"He should come here and talk to people. Real people. Then he would see."

"I think he's not--"

"He is," he corrected me before I could finish.

"Is what?" I was feeling bolder with him backed off from us. But I was still thinking about his disappearing accent.

"Take my son, for example," the taller of the two waitresses said.

"Your son?" Rona said.

"Yes. He has a gun. Most of his friends do."

"I assume," I stammered, "To me it depends on how old he is. I mean from my perspective. But what do I know about these things. I'm just like Bloomberg. From New York. The city. Brooklyn."

"Exactly," she said, having wandered over to us.

"I mean, if I may ask, how old is he? You don't have to tell me, of course."

"I know that." She smiled a bit condescendingly in my direction. I deserved that, I acknowledged. "If you must know, he's eight."

"Eight?" Rona could not hide her surprise. 

"I know what you're thinking but you don't know my boy. Or his grandfather."

"Who is?" Rona ventured.

"He works for Homeland Security."

"Really? What does he--"

"He teaches marksmanship. Trains their best people to become snipers."

"Really? That's amazing," I said.

"To tell you--"

She interrupted Rona. "I think I know what you're thinking. That this is a terrible thing to do and--"

"Not really. I mean I know--"

"That in the real world," she completed Rona's thought, "as awful as it is, it's necessary. Don't you think? I don't need to spell out all the situations where we need them. Snipers. There's no other way to describe them. That's what they do. So we should call them what they are. And are proud to be. To help keep us safe. You remember those Somali pirates?" We both nodded. "Well, my father teaches Navy Seals too."

There was no need to say more. "His grandfather taught him, my son, all about guns. Starting at six."

"Not to--"

"No not to become a sniper," she and Rona laughed together. "But how to handle and respect them. Guns."

"To tell you the truth," Rona said. "This is not something or a world that I know anything about. I guess I'm OK with people having guns. I mean--"

"Among other things, it's in the Constitution," the owner rejoined the discussion. "The Second Amendment says--"

"We coud debate that all day," I said, "The history and meaning of it."

"You mean about the 'well regulated militia' part?" He said, now directly to me.

"That and other things," I said. "But at the moment I'm just enjoying your eggs and wonderful ham. Every year when we're here I can't wait to have some."

"Let's just agree," he offered,  "that things are often more complicated than they seem."

I couldn't disagree about that.

"Like, for example," the waitress said, "how few people from where you're from could learn from my father how to defend us."

"Fair enough," Rona said, "But there are many ways to do that. Not everyone has to . . . . There are other things that need to be done. And people from Brooklyn and other places are helping as well. In their own ways. About things they know how to do."

"One thing, for sure we all agree about," he said, "is that there are some bad guys out there and we have to figure out ways to keep people safe. There are probably other things we could agree about. Like privacy, for example. On the other hand," he caught himself, "considering where you're from, maybe not."

"It might surprise you," I said, finishing my ham, "but for a New York liberal I'm no so liberal about privacy and some of the things the N.S.A. does."

"And it might surprise you that I voted for Obama. Twice. And she did to,"he pointed toward the waitress who was refilling the coffee pot.

"Just once," she winked. "The second time, I didn't vote at all. A plague on all their houses," she said.

"While I'm holding this can I heat up your cup?"

"I'd love some," I said.