in hunting was first sparked, my father required that we pass a hunter education course administered by the state of Kentucky. My father always accompanied us when a gun was present. He double-checked that the safety was on. He made sure the barrel always pointed away from people. He told us not to fuck up or it would cost someone their life.

These lessons weigh heavily on a boy’s minds. My introduction to guns became my introduction to responsibility and attention to detail. Maturity is learned only by placing young boys in situations that demand it. Guns, in part, made me an adult. Aside from when my brother almost shot my father in the head with a .270 Winchester, we managed to avoid any gun-related mishaps.

It is hard for me to imagine sometimes why people are so averse to gun ownership. But then, perhaps guns have such a bad reputation because the only story worth telling about a gun is a story with a bad ending.

My brother woke me up at four in the morning to go hunting. It was my first day home from college for winter break. My plane had landed at ten o’clock the night before. I hadn’t gotten to bed until midnight. Despite all of this, it was muzzleloader season. I was obliged to go.

I sipped coffee from a thermos as my brother navigated the windy country roads in the dark. We drove to Harston’s farm in the hills and hollers of western Allen County. Harston and my brother had been friends in high school. They had graduated together and now went to different colleges. Harston studied agriculture at Western Kentucky University in Bowling Green. My brother went to Eastern Kentucky University in Richmond to study wildlife management. Despite the four-hour drive that separated them, they still met up before daybreak every weekend of deer season at Harston’s farm.