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When I was thirteen, nearly 63 years ago, a family friend who had fought in North Africa and Italy gave me a very clean, little-used Walther PP he had taken from a Wehrmacht officer who "no longer needed it". Had the late owner's name penciled inside the holster flap. When I was fourteen my dad interrupted a would-be burglar trying to steal it--it was a neighbor kid who knew I had it, though we couldn't prove it. My mother insisted on selling it. Took it to a pawnshop. The guy offered her fifteen bucks, and knowing nothing about guns, she took it
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This has got to be one of the saddest gun stories I have ever herd. I actually shed a tear for you my friend.
My first handgun was a Beretta 96 with hogue grips, bought second hand a couple years after I got married. Its still in my nightstand keeping watch over my family.
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Concentrated power is not rendered harmless by the good intentions of those who create it.
Milton Freidman
"If you find yourself in a fair fight,,,
Your tactics suck"- Unknown
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