I have six guns in my house.
The first was a vintage Winchester 12-gauge. It was the winter of 1990, and my husband and I had just moved from an urban block in north-west Philadelphia to 100-year-old farmhouse in Appalachian Virginia, where my family goes back seven generations.
That spring, we started sitting out back every night with the two outdoor dogs and 13 feral barn cats we had adopted since moving in. Invariably, our new neighbor Jimmy would drive by and stop for a beer.
One…
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