Three stories: First, a fellow I worked with for a couple of decades loved to tell about building a "cannon" when he was a boy. Basically, they took a piece of galvanized pipe, added a nipple threaded to take a spark plug, loaded the beast with black powder, some packing, and a collection of nails, bolts, bits of glass, and rocks. Wired the spark plug to a knife-blade switch wired to a 6 volt battery. Plan "A" was for my friend to hold this contraption bazooka-like. Upon further reflection, my friend came to the fortunate conclusion that this was not a good idea. Plan "B" consisted of attaching said cannon to a limb of his mother's favorite apricot tree. "So, we're lying in the grass, Jim closed the switch, and BOOM!!! WIZZZZZZ!! Down comes the limb." Second Story: 1968, I'm in college when a high school friend, home from Viet Nam, ends up sharing a house with me. One day, a group of us is up on a hill having a quiet picnic. All of a sudden, we hear the sound a bullet makes when it passes close overhead. My friend is on the ground, curled up. At first, I thought he'd been shot, but he was okay. Turned out some idiots had been drinking and decided to "target shoot" at the oak trees on the hill below us. We headed home, and never said another word about it. Third story: Neighbor kept a loaded pistol near his front door, up on a bookshelf. Ten year old daughter and a school friend came home, the daughter wanted to show the gun to her friend, reached up to get it, it fell to the floor and discharged, killing her. That was the saddest funeral I've ever attended. I grew up in a farming family. We had, and used guns. I was taught to treat every gun as if it was loaded, to never aim at anything I didn't intend to kill, and that a gun put away, was put away in a safe place.