My dad’s gun

My dad’s gun

When he was a boy, my dad received a marvelous gift: his father’s own boyhood rifle. It’s a beautiful object. Burnished wood stock, a thundercloud-grey barrel. After my dad died, it was the one thing I really wanted. At this moment – 2:45 a.m., cat stretched beside me...
Talking about guns

Talking about guns

I’ve been conducting a summer tour de café, opening my MacBook in the fug of coffee shops in Durham and beyond. Normally, I’m solitary. No space-sharing, no talk-radio hum, definitely no music. The occasional chatter of a Meet Up (I’m talking to you, Carrboro...