Have you ever remembered details about someone later in life that didn’t mean anything to you at the time? The first gun owner I knew was my grandmother. I have mentioned her a few times on my podcasts. I smile every time I hear of a woman joining the firearms community. It doesn’t matter if it is for competition, to hunt, for self-defense or to relieve stress. My grandmother’s shotgun saved my life.
Mary Goodman was the matriarch of many in her Whaleyville, Virginia home near the Blackwater Swamp Refuge area of Virginia. The town, near the border of North Carolina, no longer exists. It was a place of refuge for many, especially me. The mother of seven, grandmother of twenty-three, and great grandmother kept a loaded and unlocked no name shotgun behind the wood stove in the kitchen all of my life. The shotgun was dark rusty brown from barrel to butt stock.
Contrary to the hyperbole now told to the public, this shotgun was not used in the commission of a crime and it didn’t endanger any of the children that grew up with her. Grandma’s house was the place where all old junk went for safe keeping. There were old televisions, baby supplies and furniture from every family. It is where you could get temporary stuff to supply your home. When you had your first child, there was a stroller or bassinet somewhere you could recycle. It was the place of refuge. When there was a family problem, kids and adults went there until they sorted things out.