The marshmallow shooters are gas to play with. We have so much fun. I generally get nailed, more often than not, but that's most likely because I do a pretty good imitation of an innocent victim, having no idea whatsoever that there are brilliant, evil, good-for-nothing scallywags just waiting to attack. My hearing is so bad, I don't hear the giggles as I approach the "spot" where I am to be ambushed. I wonder if I'm raising to female versions of the next generation's James Bond?

This whole thing reminds me of growing up. As children, we were exposed quite a bit to guns from an early age. I remember going out (when you used to be able to do this) to somewhere way out in nowhere land, and target shooting. My dad was good at setting up things for us to shoot at.

From day one he taught us gun safety, and pitty the person who didn't follow the rules. I remember one thing he did to drill into us just what a bullet could do to you. He set up a cardboard box on its side and placed a can of tomatoes in it. And then he took aim, and fired. We went and took a look at the damage. I can still remember him crouching down in front of us and saying softly, "this is what can happen if you make a mistake." I never forgot that.

When we would go on vacations, Dad would have a gun under the front seat of the car. He'd move it into the hotel room under the bed when we retired for the night. He kept a gun underneath the bed at home. We always knew where it was. I never did have the urge to take it out and play with it. I never even thought of telling my friends it was there.

One evening in particular stands out in my mind. We were living in California at the time. My bedroom was at the front of the house, and closest to the driveway. I could see it, and the cars if I opened the blinds. I was about 18 at the time, and owned a 1976 Camaro. It was parked in the driveway. I heard a clinking noise sometime in the middle of the night. It was obviously loud enough to wake me up and when I looked out the window, I saw this young punk man relieving my car of its hubcaps. I ran into my parent's room and woke them up. My dad calmly got out of bed, reached for his revolver and went charging for the front door, dressed in a tshirt and underwear. He shouted something, I don't remember what, and shot at the ground a few times, all around this kid. He dropped everything, and took off like a bat out of hell across the street to I don't know where. I daresay he had to change his underwear when he got home.