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The most important thing you need to know about yesterday’s tragic school shooting in Texas is that absolutely no laws are going to change as a result of it.
In the 14 years since the Supreme Court found an individual right to bear arms under the Second Amendment in the landmark case of D.C. v. Heller, the federal judiciary has only grown more conservative. The courts will likely bar any meaningful restrictions on the possession of firearms for at least another generation.
Your fellow Americans, meanwhile, who collectively bought 40 million firearms in 2020 and 2021, have grown even less enamored with the various gun-control measures typically floated by politicians after such tragedies. In Texas, the same Republican lawmakers cruising to reelection this fall made relaxing the state’s already permissive gun laws a priority in the last legislative session.
And the simple commercial problem facing firearms manufacturers has not changed: They make highly durable goods. Firearms can be passed down through generations. To meet growth targets, then, firearms manufacturers must figure out ways to scare or otherwise motivate people who already own firearms to buy more firearms.
For decades, these firearms manufacturers have—in both subtle and not-so-subtle ways—convinced white people that they need to buy arsenals to protect themselves from people of color. More recently, thanks in part to various shootings perpetrated by those heavily armed white people, people of color have responded by arming themselves in greater numbers, which must delight the firearms manufacturers.
So we should all stop saying that something is going to change. Nothing is going to change. Democratic lawmakers—for whom overpromising and underdelivering is an incurable habit—propose measures after these shootings that they know will never pass through a highly divided Congress, or be sustained by federal judges hand-selected to stymie progressive legislation for the next three or four decades.
We all need to adjust to the idea that unfathomable levels of gun violence, including school shootings, are going to get worse, not better, in the decades to come. In the past month alone, my two sons had a baseball game canceled because of a shooting at the park where they were meant to play and, two weeks later, soccer practice cut short because a nearby gunman had opened fire on a school down the road. In that latter incident, no innocent lives were lost thanks only to the gunman’s inability to effectively use any of the three assault rifles—I’m sorry, “modern sporting rifles”—he had stockpiled in his apartment overlooking the school.
So what should we do?
First, we need to make firearms education a national priority. Once upon a time, when I was a young boy, a friendly organization called the National Rifle Association did great work teaching Americans about the safe use of firearms in hunting and other shooting sports. It still does some of that, but it’s a smaller and smaller portion of what that now extremely troubled organization is about.
The government, then, should step up. If we’re going to allow everyone in America to own as many firearms as they want, our children need to understand what to do if they see a firearm, which they inevitably will. Don’t touch it. Go find an adult. Older children, meanwhile, should also understand how to unload a firearm and render it safe. Families might not have any interest in firearms, but firearms are going to be ever-present in the lives of their children.
The Pittman-Robertson Act of 1937 funds various conservation and wildlife-habitat-restoration initiatives through taxes on firearms and ammunition. We should raise those taxes and use the additional funds to help state wildlife and natural-resources departments teach firearm and hunter safety in our schools. I knew how to safely operate a rifle by the age of 10, and I don’t think it’s ever too early to teach young children the golden rules of firearm safety:
Treat every firearm as if it is loaded.
Never point the muzzle at anything you are not willing to destroy.
Keep your finger off the trigger until you are ready to fire.
Always be sure of your target and what’s beyond.
I still hunt and shoot sporting clays on a regular basis, and whenever I return from the range or from hunting, I clean my shotguns on newspapers spread out over the dining-room table. I use the opportunity to reinforce the rules for the proper handling of firearms to my three young children. I want my children to treat firearms as objects of respect, not of lust. I do not want them to fetishize these tools.
Because the second and much harder thing we need to do is to shift the gun culture in America. I have written before about how the gun culture I have observed develop since the September 11 attacks—the emphasis on tactical weaponry, the marketing of ceramic plate carriers and Kevlar helmets to civilians—is so very different than the gun culture I grew up with in East Tennessee in the 1980s, when the seemingly ever-present firearms were mostly shotguns for hunting and bolt-action rifles.
I bought a used rifle not too long ago, and the federal firearms license-holder to whom I had to temporarily transfer the rifle—I now live in the District of Columbia, where all firearms must first be registered with the police—told me her other customers were fascinated by it. Indeed, on a rack mostly filled with semiautomatic 9-mm pistols people were waiting to pick up, my rifle stood out: a single-shot, break-action rifle chambered for big game. About as far away, in other words, from a Glock or AR-15 as you can get.
My wife, who grew up in the suburbs of New York without any firearms in her home, tells me that I am fighting a losing battle. She tells me it’s impossible to recapture a more responsible approach to firearms.
But we have to try. Because the firearms are just not going away. The shootings are not going to stop. Our children are going to be exposed to a level of everyday gun violence that children in literally no other developed nation experience.
I wish it were not this way. But this is the country we’ve chosen for ourselves, and it is not changing anytime soon.
Could you imagine seeing day after day all the gore and nastiness that your fellow man could inflict upon each other? No Thanks says I!! Grumpy


































We live way out in the middle of no place. The fact that I sort of shoot guns for a living makes that pertinent. One of the fringe benefits is copious wildlife.
Some of that is not so cool. I wage an ongoing war of extermination against the water moccasins that breed like venomous scaly bunnies in the lake that passes for our backyard. I’m barely holding my own on that front. The deer, however, are kind of neat.
My wife hates them because they eat her flowers. I think of our local deer herd as handy shelf-stable protein should Putin follow through on his oft-repeated threat to nuke the planet. For now, however, they’re a bit like pets.
I can identify many of the locals. One doe is missing half of her left ear, no doubt secondary to some unfortunate encounter with a dog in her wayward youth. She birthed twins last year, both of which are little button bucks today. The females tend to be homebodies, while the bucks always wander.
One afternoon I glanced out my bathroom window to see an enormous 10-point who was obviously enraptured with a small, young doe. She was, for her part, having none of it. He chased her around like an idiot trying to look cool while she trotted hither and yon in search of a safe space. I called my wife’s attention to the apparent age discrepancy, and she declared that he was “The Harvey Weinstein of deer.”
Anyway, the point is that women reliably disengage a man’s higher-order brain functions. Anyone who feels otherwise has clearly never met an actual human. Guys who might be respected political leaders or captains of industry can be rendered intellectually incompetent by a strategic glance from an attractive woman. It’s really a bit like a superpower.
I sat huddled comfortably at the base of a big elm tree alongside my dad. I was tucked down behind the portable blind my mom had sewed for us out of sharpened dowels and camouflage cloth. My skinny teenaged mitts gripped my Browning Auto-5 12-gauge in a death rictus while my trigger finger hovered over the safety. Above 60 yards distant, a big turkey gobbler slowly ambled our way.
My dad is a master at this. He had been tormenting this poor guy for half an hour, yelping a few hen calls while interspersing the occasional gobble. In his capable hands, a Lynch’s box call conjured a sort of irresistible jealousy in the randy bird. This gobbler heard girls whooping it up with some other guy, and he was on the prowl for a hot date.
Dad waited until the moment was perfect and popped out a quick yelp. This was more than the big guy could stand. He broke into a trot headed our way with love on his mind. Dad tapped me on the thigh. It was time.
I let the beast get within about 25 yards before I pivoted up onto my knees and raised the 32-inch barrel of my shotgun above the edge of the blind. For a pregnant moment, our eyes met. Up close, wild turkeys are incredibly ugly. The look on his face said, “Oh, crap.” The look on mine said, “You’re dinner.”
And indeed, he was. I don’t recall if this particular bird was served on Thanksgiving, Easter or Christmas. However, after my mom had her way with him in the kitchen, he was some epically good eating. It was always a bit of a competition among us three brothers to see who would be the first to find a piece of lead shot in our meal. All three of us turned out pretty well. Imagine what we might have accomplished had it not been for all that childhood lead exposure.
We’ve not even begun to discuss the simply breathtaking antics of the human male. These same primal drives that bought my turkey buddy a face full of #4 shot have caused men to break bones, abdicate thrones, and, in extreme cases, suffer violent, gory death. John Hinkley shot President Reagan in a doomed effort to impress Jodie Foster, an actress he had never met.
The real shame of it is, as near as I can tell, women really don’t care. Like that harried doe outside my bathroom window, for the most part, they just cannot be bothered with our foolishness. I have chased my wife for 40 years, and I still don’t have a clue. Perhaps someday I’ll figure out how to impress girls, or like all those other guys, I’ll just die trying …