In spite of the sub-zero temperature, the sunlight pouring through the picture window and onto the kitchen table was almost uncomfortably warm.

“Well,” said Nancy, “seeing as you’re finally getting older and smarter” – the reference was to passing up rabbit hunting because of the bitter cold – “and seeing that it’s Saturday, maybe you could fix the hinges on the laundry-room door.”

“I was just thinking of that,” I said as I left the table. “But first I’m going to run a patch through a couple of guns that I haven’t touched since bird season.”

“Oh, sure,” said my spouse. “It’s always, `But first.”‘

The memory bank of the human mind is amazing, to say the least. When I opened the gun cabinet door and reached for a racy double barrel, I noticed the gray and rattly pump-action shotgun standing alongside it. Recalling the summer I mowed grass at the cemetery to buy the 16-gauge scattergun, I thought aloud, “Damn, a few hunting seasons have come and gone since then.”

Memories of men, dogs, duck marshes, bays, and bird covers grown-up and gone-by flashed through my mind as vividly as a video being rewound. But one image – it was as though the “Pause” button had been pushed – stopped abruptly. Remembering the day and considering the anti-gun hysteria and attendant gun-control “eyewash” sweeping the country, I mumbled softly, “Imagine doing that today.”

“Doing what?” Nancy asked from the doorway. “Who are you talking to, the dogs?” It’s incredible. When I discover, for example, that the back bathroom is devoid of toilet paper, I can yell to high heaven and she won’t hear me. But let me say something under my breath and I swear she’d hear it if she were out to the mailbox.

“See this shotgun?” I said taking the old pump-gun from the cabinet. “And see this Poly-Choke on the end of the barrel? Well, there’s a story there, and it’s a shining example of how far things have gone the other way in this screwed up society of ours.”

Without waiting for a response, I continued: “Right after I bought this gun, I decided I wanted a Poly-Choke put on it. By adjusting the choke you control the pattern of shot, like the nozzle on a garden hose controls the stream of water. That makes the gun suitable for a wide range of game.

“I had to take the gun over to Dakin’s Sporting Goods store in Bangor. I think they shipped it to the company to have the choke installed. Anyway, one day when my grandfather was headed that way, I rode with him to the Bangor end of the old bridge. The Chamberlain Bridge hadn’t been built yet.

“Now, picture this. After he dropped me off I walked, carrying this shotgun, from the end of the old bridge, down Washington Street, past Union Station, across the Kenduskeag Stream bridge, took a right through Pickering Square, and on up Broad Street to Dakin’s – without anyone so much as giving me a second look.

“Think about it. Then think about how far a person would get carrying a shotgun through downtown Bangor today – or anywhere within city limits, for that matter. Hell, there’d be sirens wailing and police scrambling and you’d be surrounded by SWAT teams and sheriff’s deputies and FBI agents and God only knows who else. Not to mention some Kung Fu fanatic trying to “disarm” you in the meantime. I’m telling you, I can’t believe what I see happening.”

“People are afraid of guns,” she replied.

“What people?” I asked irritably. “You’re not afraid of guns. My friends aren’t afraid of guns. No one I ever knew when I was growing up was afraid of guns. Practically every house had a few guns in it and most of us kids were hunting alone by the time we were in our middle teens. And not one of us ever had a gun-related problem. Never once did it cross our minds to use guns for anything but hunting or target shooting – and we’ve never used them for anything else since.”

“I know that.”

“Then what’s the problem? Why should my ownership of these guns – my Second Amendment rights – be threatened because crime and drugs are rampant and the kids in this country are out of control? Whose fault’s that? Why should I, as a responsible gun owner, be ridiculed and condemned because some `stressed out’ airhead in New York City started shooting into the street because his toaster didn’t work that morning? Why should I and millions of other law-abiding gun owners be the target of an anti-gun president and Congress because of a failed society and a judicial system that’s a joke?

“Imagine it, kids taking guns to school, shooting and killing each other. Drive-by shootings. Those kids have no respect for anyone or anything. No values, no principles, no morals, nothing. How much sicker can it get? In all the time our kids were growing up, not one of them ever touched one of these guns. Not once. Not even Jeff, unless I was with him.

“That’s true,” said Nancy. “But you’re forgetting one very important thing – our kids never came home to an empty house.”

“I’m not talking only about kids,” I answered, dodging her dead-center bullet. “I’m talking about all this trendy, politically correct, media-hyped mass hysteria aiming at guns and gun control, which everyone admits won’t control crime. It’s like painting over rust.”

“Well, I can appreciate your concerns,” Nancy allowed as she left the room. “But I think they might be exaggerated.”

“You think so?” I asked quietly, responding more or less to myself. “Then tell me, if I went walking up the main road with this shotgun in my hand, how far would I get before someone reported me to the police?”

No answer. But I know I was speaking low enough for her to hear me.