When I was growing up, guns were an everyday part of my life. We lived in the middle of 3200 acres of wooded land, and we were poor. My father was a hunter, and he shot deer, ducks, pheasant, quail, rabbits, wild turkey, geese, and probably a few things I don't know about or remember. Meat didn't come from the grocery store, it came from the freezer in the barn. Beyond hunting, my father loved competitive target target shooting for the sport of it. He owned handguns, and he took the time to teach both my mother and me how to shoot accurately and safely. My parents belonged to a gun club, and their friends were people--often couples--who also competed. I remember at least twice going to the National Pistol matches in Camp Perry, Ohio for our summer "vacation." It was a far cry from roller coasters at Cedar Point, but as an only child, I didn't know the difference. Did anyone get upset about a six-year-old shooting at targets? Not that I remember. Even when...