I was nine years old with an insatiable appetite for the dangers of weapons. I had collected pocket knives and had filled an entire briefcase with my many flea-market spoils. My parents eventually bought me my very own BB gun, which turned out to be as much a source of entertainment for my father as it was for me. My father and I would shoot at milk cartons filled with water in our backyard and watch as our shots left the carton to bleed water from its many holes. But there is one incident with my BB gun that stands out more than any other. It was family camp week for Ramona First Baptist, the church my father was pastoring at the time. We brought my BB gun. During camp I pleaded with my father to take me out to shoot it. Finally, he agreed to take me out with several other kids at the church. I would stick the gun between my legs to pump it up as many times as I could. We shot it out into the distance at really nothing in particular. When my dad took the gun to shoot a few himself, all the kids gathered closely to watch