That is to say that I don't see the reason for anyone in this country to own a Russian assault rifle or anything of that type.
But hunting guns, real hunting guns, like single-action shotguns and such are permitted in my world.
Not much else.
Sorry, gun aficionados.
Which brings me to my youth.
My very young youth.
September 23rd, 1944, to be exact.
I am four years old and kneeling on the left, apparently holding onto a pheasant.
My 11 year old brother is to the right and our wonderful dog, Honey, is to the right of him.
My grandfather, B.W. Taylor, is standing on the left and my father, F.B. Taylor, is second from the right.
We have all been on a pheasant hunting expedition with what appear to be good results.
Years later, I went hunting for prairie chickens once with my dad and we discovered that I was a natural, crack shot.
But I didn't pursue it.
Incidentally, today would be my father's 112th birthday.
And, yes, it is Thanksgiving.
But seriously I am thankful for the relatively good health SWMBO and I enjoy and for the many friends and family enjoying this festive day whereever they are.
Happy Thanksgiving to all!