No jokes, today. Our kids are dying.
Let me state at the outset that I was a hand gun owner.
When Nick and I moved out to Colorado in 1996, I decided to learn to target-shoot. I had a friend, Bill, who had his own security firm, and he offered to teach me.
We met on a pistol range in Basalt and using paper plates for targets, Bill proceeded to instruct me in gun safety, etiquette and the proper way handle a hand gun.
But my fingers were too small and I couldn’t reach the trigger- let alone pull it. So soon we were on our way to WalMart to find a gun petite enough for me to shoot comfortably.
I found one.
A sleek Sig Sauer nine millimeter semi-automatic in snazzy (what else) gunmetal gray- complete with its own nifty travel case. The whole process- including licensing- took about an hour.
I also left the store with a box of bullets. Which remained with Bill at his house. I never wanted the gun and the ammo to be in the same venue as my sixteen year old- or his nosey pals.
So now armed with with my new little friend, I would meet Bill at the range for more target practice and gun safety drill.
Gabby Hayes Sidebar: I have NO idea how or why this “Annie Oakley” syndrome started. From childhood, I have always hated loud noises. My folks would have to turn off the television whenever I watched The Gabby Hayes Show.
It preceded Howdy Doody- another favorite- and I loved it.
Until the very end, that is.
Gabby was sponsored by Quaker Oats and its cereal was “shot from guns.” Many’s the time that he would pull out a small cannon and shoot it at his television audience. With that, I would get hysterical and so my parents learned to shut it off before he fired.
My dad would also have to beat a hasty retreat before the end of every night baseball game he took me to at Comiskey Park. Bill Veeck would explode loud fireworks and I would start crying.
Go figure. I still don’t like loud noises but I loved target shooting.
My ex husband, Bill? Mmm…not so much. In fact when he heard that I had bought a gun (courtesy of our housekeeper Klara’s tom tom) he went ballistic.
He went balls-to-the-wall ape and contacted his attorney, who contacted me to wit in re that if I didn’t ditch the pistol forthwith, Bill would habeas corpus Nick right back to Chicago.
I knew that I had lost that quickdraw. I immediately sold the gun and faxed the bill of sale to the hired gun in Chi-town.
(At the time I couldn’t figure out why my ex was so terrified by my new hobby. But I didn’t know then what I do know now. I get why he was quaking in his Avventura shoes…)
Whew. A lot of back story.
That being said, I can now turn my attention to the shooting tragedy in Santa Barbara.
And Columbine.
And Virginia Tech.
And Newtown.
And Hubbard Woods.
Does the name “Laurie Dann” ring any (graveyard) bells?
As a Winnetka parent, I dodged a bullet on that one.
About a month before that heinous event, I met Joel Corwin in a popcorn line at the Edens Theater. My brother Kenny introduced us, saying,”Ellen’s son is named Nick.”
Joel Corwin’s face lit up like he had been handed a present.
“You have a ‘Nick?’ I have a ‘Nick.'”
And with that, he pulled out his wallet and proudly showed me a photograph of an adorable eight year old Little League slugger. He was in a green and white uniform and had struck a batting stance.
I remember the photograph perfectly- because I had the exact same one.
My eight year old was in the same Little League. With the same uniform. In the same pose.
And in exactly the same position in this mother’s heart.
There was only one difference. A month later, a maniac named Laurie Dann did not come into my kids’ school and shoot up a classroom full of third graders.
Her rampage took her to other elementary schools to spread her lethal trail of murder, twisted revenge and God only knows what else.
Better leave God out of it.
At the end of that horrific day, I had two children blessedly returned to me.
Nick Corwin’s mother and father didn’t.
This was their child. And he never lived to see all the things that my son takes for granted.
A day on the mountain.
A hockey game.
College graduation.
A wedding.
Life in all its infinite wonder and glory. Nick Corwin never had a chance to grow up.
My daughter Natasha- ten years old at the time of Dann’s killing spree- is now a first grade teacher in Boston.
How do you think I felt watching the ghastly news about Newtown, Connecticut?
And this latest shooting in Santa Barbara really has me up in arms. (Pun intended.)
Women and children first, it would seem. First to be targeted, first to be slaughtered by the cowards and misogynists and psychopaths who want to lash out at an indifferent world.
But I will let Richard Martinez, father of Christopher, have the last word on the subject.
Please do what he asks.
For all our kids’ sakes.
Enough is enough.
Thank you.
