The Gun Show

We made an unexpected trip to the gun show at the Salem Civic Center this morning.

My husband I think expected to go; he just forgot to tell me until the last minute.

Gun shows are ... different. I have been to three now, all since 9/11/2001. They are not places one would expect to find me, and they are not places I would go on my own.

The first show after 9/11 was very intense. People were grim and angry, downright hostile. Lots of stuff on display about "protecting our own" and similar sentiments.

The show today was more relaxed. It is still a right-wing rednecked party, but I didn't feel like the entire place was hunting for bear.

At gun shows you see lots of guns. Guns can be pretty, if you forget that they kill stuff. The stocks especially can be very beautiful. My husband prefers the wood stocks, and they are indeed very lovely pieces of wood.

You also see a lot of Dixie items - Confederate flags, for example. Also I saw swords of various sizes, which always fascinate me. A great sword is *incredibly* heavy. Even a short sword has a lot of heft to it. My wrists certainly wouldn't hold up long if I had to carry one.

Additionally, there are aisles of mace and pepper spray, tasers, camouflage clothing, coins, bullets, vests, pistols, pistol carriers for concealed weapons, things like that.

The crowd consisted of mostly (white) men, and they looked like a sea of baseball caps spread out among the show floor. A few very burly men with tattoos (they were rather scary-looking) paced up and down the aisles. Maybe they were some kind of security but they looked like bikers.

The one thing that caught my attention was the stereotype the gun show pushed. Many of the items sold seemed to be targeted at the kind of folks who epitomize Jeff Foxworthy's humor.

Not much room at a gun show for someone who reads poetry, I must say. Although I think there is a sort of poetry in gun shows ...

The Gun Show

The Civil War, fought 100 years ago
lives strong and the Rebel Flag flies
at the gun show.

Men with chew in their jaws pace the aisles
eyes intent on their target.
A Remington, a Winchester, a Marlin.

The guns, sleek and smooth, barrels straight
await a proper aim
and a touch on the trigger.

Money changes hands and guns march off
with hunters, bandits, police officers,
women, mothers, children.

The hum of the mechanics of capitalism,
the sounds of doing business,
the death exchange.

Needs work, that poem. Ah well.