Firearms were part of my upbringing. My dad, uncle and grandfather owned rifles, shotguns and sidearms. I grew up learning how to safely handle guns, and I learned to appreciate the ingenuity behind their designs and the roles the Model 1911 Colt, the Winchester Model 1873, and other firearms played in our nation’s history.
I hate the callous sloppiness that allowed a disturbed 15-year-old to take possession of a gun, kill four people and injure seven others on Nov. 30 in Michigan. One set of adults after another failed in the responsibilities they needed to meet to ensure those murders did not occur.
The Michigan legislators who won’t strengthen the state’s gun laws to require safe storage and handling of firearms failed the murder victims.
Crumbley’s parents, by all accounts, failed to meet their responsibility to keep a firearm out of a child’s hands.
The school officials who cared more about rules and following procedure failed the murder victims by not searching Crumbley and his backpack after a teacher, parents, and a school counselor became alarmed about his presence and behavior in school.
Firearms in the hands of the emotionally distraught, the mentally ill, or people who are just plain stupid seem to accelerate disagreements or psychotic episodes, sending them spiraling out of control and rushing toward a fatal conclusion.
I know this because I was a participant in an armed standoff 40 years ago. It began with the sound of gears downshifting and metal crumpling upon impact with a hard object on a drowsy summer afternoon, at my late father’s Wyoming-mountain home.
He rushed into his backyard to find a man crawling out of a truck that crashed into a tree yards away from the sandbox where my sister was playing. My dad collared the driver and told him to get off our property.
The driver did what he was told. But he returned 15 minutes later asking permission to remove the truck, if it was driveable. My dad refused and called the county sheriff. Another 15 minutes passed and the neighbor who had hired the driver walked onto our property with a pistol strapped to his side.
The neighbor asked, then demanded that my father let him retrieve the truck. My dad said no and went into his office and came back out holding his Colt .45. Their conversation grew loud and menacing.
My dad shouted to me, “Get the .22,” and I knew exactly what he meant. I had the target rifle cradled in one arm and I was reaching for a box of shells with the other when the sheriff arrived and told everyone to take a deep breath and keep their hands where he could see them.
No one got shot on Casper Mountain that afternoon. But when my father told me to arm myself and prepare to have his back, I could feel the rush toward violent inevitability I referred to earlier.
A firearm adds an “x” factor into every situation. They up the ante in arguments, confrontations and suicidal thoughts. I’m not convinced unarmed-response teams are the answer to reforming law enforcement. I am also not convinced police officers need to be armed every time they respond to a call.
I am convinced that we have to keep guns out of the hands of people who aren’t fit to handle them. I wasn’t considered fit to handle one until I demonstrated the required amount of attention and respect.
There are people like the Crumbleys who shouldn’t be anywhere near a firearm. Part of the answer to ending firearm violence is education; part of it is regulation and enforcement, and the bigger part is investing in the resources that would have saved the four people in Michigan by getting Ethan Crumbley the help he needed before a gun ended their lives and changed his forever.
