In August 1965 the Watts riots exploded in the Los Angeles neighborhood of that name. Though I was out of the country and long-distance telephone calls in those days were expensive, I called a friend living in an adjacent neighborhood to see how he was faring. He reported that the violence of Watts had not spread to his neighborhood, but he was in his front room with a loaded rifle and plenty of ammunition “just in case.” I asked if he thought he would have to use the rifle.

“I hope so,” he replied.

Those three words were as unexpected and disturbing to me as what Watts represented (and revealed) about our country, and they helped me take a tiny step in a counter direction. I was not comfortable with hope that would kill another human, no matter their perceived infraction. I grew up with guns, hunted as a boy and young man and killed, dressed and cleaned enough game animals and birds to know the reality of dinner. Once, while still a boy, I was involved in the rescue of a hapless hunter who had been shot in the thigh by his careless partner. It was not pretty.

I learned early on that the only purpose of a gun is to kill. It is a superb tool for that purpose.

The last time I carried a weapon with the intent to use it was an unsuccessful day of hunting Chukkar in northern Nevada when we shot no birds and the car broke down on an infrequently traveled back road miles from any paved highway. It was not a good position, but within an hour a car appeared heading in the right direction and stopped. We were grateful for the ride but quickly alarmed by the driver’s story and very mien. He informed us that earlier that day he had shot another man during an argument, didn’t know if the victim was alive or not, and was heading south on the least traveled roads he could find. We had stashed our own guns in the broken car with the thought that hitchhikers with weapons have a lesser chance of being picked up, but though the driver’s demeanor made it questionable whether he was telling the truth or spinning a tale we asked to be let out at the first available telephone.

In the spring of 1968 I went to Canada for a month. At the border the customs agent asked if I had any weapons in my van. I replied that I carried a pistol under the seat. He told me I couldn’t take the weapon into Canada but that it would be there for me when I returned to the US. By the end of that month I had determined that the only purpose of a gun is to kill, and I did not want to do that with my life. I left my last gun at Canadian customs and embarked on a path of dealing with life according to the attitude and reality that, whatever its challenges and dangers, killing would not be my response.

Has that decision been beneficial to my life and inner and outer being? Absolutely.

Has it been beneficial to the lives and inner and outer beings of my fellow citizens of planet Earth? I hope so.