Why I Carry A Gun

It was this day twenty two years ago that Craig got off work, and began to drive home. He worked at the local power plant, on the evening shift. He had a new wife waiting for him at home, with a baby on the way. Craig had recently bought them a new home in the country. It was raining that night, and it was dark. As Craig crested a hill he saw a Chevy Luv pick-up truck in the ditch. A bloodied woman was in the roadway frantically flagging him down.

I went to school with Craig all through grammar and high school. We hunted tadpoles together as kids, and later asked the same girl to the prom. She went with Craig. Like many friends we lived in close proximity and drifted apart. I was in the Navy in the South Pacific on that night.

Craig, being a good country boy, always ready to help a lady in distress, pulled over to see what he could do. As he got out of his vehicle, she shot him once through the chest with a .357 magnum revolver. Craig hit the wet pavement, no doubt in shock, the cold November rain pelting his body. I wonder what he thought. I hope he died thinking of his wife and little girl at home. I hope he did not wonder why he was shot, but I suspect he did.

The woman stole Craig's vehicle, running over his outstretched arm, and left him in the roadway to die. She had just killed her boyfriend, who had been driving the Chevy Luv she was riding in. I did not learn of Craig's death until I returned home from the Navy, and happened to run into his father. We had drifted apart, but Craig's death had a profound effect on me. The country boy world I trusted as I grew up had changed while I was overseas. I began to carry a gun.