Fun Times Pt2

Before I move on to the meat of the entry, let me just apologize in advance for the lack of content. My life the last few weeks has looked something like this:

Work, 11-7:30 Sunday & Monday
School, Tuesday 10-4:30
School, homework, and all the stuff I can't do after 7:30 at night, Wednesday & Thursday
Work, 11-7:30 Friday & Saturday

Anyhoo, onto the story.

I call for a ride home from school Thursday afternoon, and my mom sounds weird. On the verge of crying. It's easy to tell in the car that's she's freaked out. While I was at programming class, and my brother was at the Y, another set of voices started talking in the house, over the radio. She'd been out feeding squirrels and left the back door open, then went down to the opposite end of the house... and after turning off the radio, the voices persisted. She went from room to room, making sure all noise-making appliances were off.

They were.

The voices were still talking. Mom went to the top of the basement stairs. The voices were coming from downstairs. Someone had turned the TV on, while she was upstairs. No one else was home.

This is the very definition of A Bad Thing(TM).

She couldn't leave, because my brother was coming home, and she didn't want him walking in on a burglary in progress. Not only that, but I'd be calling soon. So, she went and retrieved my dad's newly restored 1911, and stood by the back door for 15 minutes. She didn't know how to make it operational, but the impulse to get a gun was the right one.

15 minutes later, my brother gets back from the Y. In his words, "there are few things scarier than being greeted at the door by your mother, who's holding a gun and going 'ssshhhh.'"

Brother doesn't know how to operate a 1911. Nevertheless, he takes it, stands at the head of the stairs, and tells mom to retrieve my CX4 (which he does know how to operate) from my room. She does, and he ventures into the basement.

A note aforehand. My brother's not quite the gunny I am. He has no interest in self-defense theory, doesn't read or watch tapes, or constantly surround himself with people who talk guns and survival more than they eat (slight exaggeration), like yours truly does.

Our basement is divided up into a long room running parallel under the front of the house, and a bedroom (my brother's), a laundry room, a bathroom, and a workroom running parallel to long room, under the back of the house. The stairs lead down to one end of the long room.

My brother sprinted down the stairs, got to the end of the long room, put the wall to his back, and evaluated. The lights had been turned on, and the TV was on. He quickly checks visible hiding places, and sprints to the laundry room, which is an intersection for the basement. From there, he moves fast to his bedroom, and trades the 9mm carbine for Nancy Pelosi, the battlerifle that he practically owns, and keeps in his closet. From there, he runs back upstairs.

I'd called by then, and he tells mom, in her words "Go get 'Vincent.' He's the safe one, he'll know what to do." My mom says it's a measure of the respect my brother has for me, that he'd rather rely on my judgement in a crisis than his own.

Let me tell you, there's nothing quite like coming home, and finding your brother sitting on the sofa with a battlerifle over his knees.

I jack a round into the 1911, and we go downstairs, check room to room. Nobody. Empty. Having thoroughly cleared the basement of all hiding places, we return our various weaponry to the places from whence it came, go upstairs, and begin the Monday Morning Quarterbacking.

My mom has since handled every gun I own, and does not possess the physical strength to draw back a bolt or slide. She just can't, and it's our practice to leave chambers empty around the house. So, I'm looking into a revolver. It'll cost as much as a battlerifle probably, and it won't have near the utility.

The reason I write this is to show my respect for my brother. It just keeps climbing. I've observed him and his actions now for quite a while, and I'm hard-pressed to come up with a better, more practical person, and not just when it comes to handling the household weaponry. I can't go into it here, but I find it humbling to see in someone else the qualities I WISH to see in myself, especially in someone who I've been told doesn't possess them. But let's look at what he did right in this situation:

Traded up from a handgun to a carbine.
Moved through a big empty space fast, and only stopped when he had his back to something.
Cleared the hiding places and intersection fast.
Traded up from a carbine to a rifle when the opportunity presented itself.
Waited for backup before going any deeper into an unknown situation.

I doubt he'll read this, but for someone who's spent zip for time around the gun culture, that's pretty damn good for a first try, and deserves a slap on the back.

Oh and, we have no idea how the lights or TV came on. My mom hadn't been downstairs for about half an hour before they turned themselves on. It's a mystery.

Gander Mtn. will be getting a visit from me this week, and I'm definitely coming back better schooled in wheelguns than when I left.