A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.
The Second Amendment.
Probably the most contentious twenty-seven words in the entire Constitution.
I don’t hate The Second Amendment, but I don’t like it either. I don’t own a gun, and personally don’t see any need for one, so I should be ambivalent – but I’m not. For my part, it wouldn’t hurt my feelings if The Second Amendment went away. But it won’t (read on and you’ll find out why it won’t). So The Second Amendment is, and, during my lifetime at least, will be a fact of American life.
That it’s a fact of American life means that we must, absolutely must, find common ground. Make it something that we can all be comfortable with – all.
A starting point might be to pay heed to two important words that have been lost in the debate – well regulated. Not infringed or abolished but well regulated. Maybe the founders should have phrased it, reasonably regulated.
For our part, maybe those of us on either side should practice a little give and take and at the same time, challenge politicians to be guided by what’s right and fair, and not by what will keep their coffers full and themselves in office. Challenge them to be forthright.
Prior to 2015, it had probably been more than thirty years since I’d seen my cousin. When I was a kid we used to see each other nearly every other summer. Either her family; her parents, two older brothers and little sister would visit us in the San Francisco Bay Area or we, my mom and dad, with me in tow, would visit them in Salt Lake City
Her brother and I, the second son were about the same age and we played when we were little, and hung out, as the saying goes, when we were older. She was the awkward tag along, wanting to join but getting shooed off like an annoying stray.
While much is blurred by years, there are a few things that stand out.
The time her family visited and we all went out to the beach, when she saw the Pacific Ocean for the first time, her thrill of wading into the chilly giant water.
She had an undying love of animals, particularly horses. She used to collect little plastic toy horse statues.
One year, when I was nineteen or thereabouts, I joined her family and another family for a summer camping trip. It was a two car caravan. I was in the lead car and the car she was in had fallen miles behind. We came to an intersection in some now nameless town where a horse had been run over by a truck. The poor beast was still alive, but trapped between the wheels. It was a sight that every now and then returns to trouble me.
Almost immediately our concern turned towards my cousin. The scene, horrifying for us, would be traumatizing for her. My recollection is that the two drivers communicated via CB radio and the car she was riding in detoured around the scene, sparing her the sight.
The Life in My Years 