Guns were a ubiquitous part of my childhood. My grandfather, who had been a master sergeant in the Army, had a small arsenal in his house in Mechanic Falls, Maine. He gave me a bolt-action Springfield rifle when I was 7. By the time I was 10, I had graduated to a Winchester lever-action 30-30. I moved my way up the National Rifle Association's (NRA) Marksmanship Qualification Program, helped along by a summer camp where riflery was mandatory. Like many boys in rural America, I was fascinated by guns, although I disliked hunting. Two decades as a reporter in war zones, however, resulted in a deep aversion to weapons. I saw what they did to human bodies. I inherited my grandfather's guns and gave them to my uncle.
