Save Our Children

Count me in as one mother and grandmother, who doesn't want the call closer than Newtown was. The friend in a nearby town who attended a funeral of a child--my grandson's age. It could have been her grandchild, or mine. Or yours. The friend who attended a candlelight vigil in another neighboring town.

What will it take? YOUR grandchild shot dead to wake up? Or your spouse?

As Jane Brody's New York Times story states--gun control works. Don't give me the boiler-plate BS about if teachers had been armed in Newtown--like the toothless security guard at Columbine?  Or the how many thousand armed people at Fort Hood? Oh yeah, they were a lot of useless.

As Mayor Bloomberg knows firsthand, gun laws work. And he has the financial and public policy weight to back this fight. Only question is, will he? Who will be the one to finally take the gun manufacturers on--represented by the miniscule NRA membership?

And as for the Gannett newspaper in Rockland County who published names and addresses of gun permits holders, bravo. Yes. BRAVO. Now people know whose house is a potential danger to visit, especially of children who might inadvertently (and do often) find a gun and play with it. Bang bang, you're dead--but unlike in the movies, it is permanent.

Grandmothers and Mothers need to unite, like Mothers Against Drunk Driving (MADD). The clever name eludes my brain, but Save Our Children is what I think of given I want to SOC it to the murdering enablers of the NRA ilk.

Recuse any Congressional representative with a 100% score card of the NRA, clearly--like those who have genuflected to Grover Norquist--they have already sold their souls to the gun lobbyists (i.e. NRA).

Will gun control stop all gun death? Of course not. But like limitations how fast you can drive (legally), it's a start. Akin to getting a diabetic to walk to the mailbox. You gotta start somewhere.

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    Candace Drimmer

    I was an accidental expatriate; love and marriage led me to it. One day I was a bandy-legged kid sitting atop my dogwood tree looking out of my small backyard world in 1950s New Jersey, wanting to move somewhere--anywhere, different. Next thing I knew my father had accepted a job in Houston TX. I was ecstatic, it was a foreign land in 1961 America. After high school graduation, my parents’ gave me a matched set of fawn-colored hardsided American Tourister luggage. Taking the hint, I went to college; well four colleges in five years--it was the 60s after all. Meeting a young hirsute anti-war, soon-to-be-Peace Corps volunteer, I fell in love. After finishing up college coursework for my degree, but before I even walking a graduation stage, I grabbed the paper airline ticket my boyfriend had sent me, my brand-new passport, and was off to the airport and Lima, Peru.

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