When my son Samuel was 6, I bought him a tiny bolt-action .22 cal. rifle called a “Davey Crickett” to teach him marksmanship. I asked him once why he never wanted to play with it.

“Dad, it’s not a toy. You don’t play with guns.”

At the time, I worked second shift at the factory, stayed up late on the Internet at home, and slept late into the morning. On Sept. 11, 2001, I was awakened by a phone call from my little brother who worked in Chicago.

“Mike – are you watching TV?”
“No.”
“Turn it on.”
“What channel?”
“Any channel. You’re not going to believe it. I’m on my way to pick my fiancé up: she works in a skyscraper, and they’re evacuating all the tall buildings in Chicago. There’s a series of terrorist attacks across the country and no one knows where the next target will be.”

I tuned in to see a plane fly into the second World Trade Center tower. Then they replayed it over, and over. Samuel, now 7, was sitting at the dining room table, doing his home-school assignments.

“Sam, come here, I want you to see something.”

Entering the room, he asked, “What is that?”

“It’s New York City. It looks like we’re under attack.”

He stood for a moment looking at the scene, then nodded his head, walked back into the dining room, closed his schoolbook and said, “Get my rifle.”

Even children know the appropriate response to the terrorist threat.

That’s my boy.

Mike VanOuse
Lafayette