Yes, I grew up with guns. For my 16th birthday, in fact, I

Host: The sky was deep amber, the last gasp of sunlight spilling through the trees like molten glass. The forest stood in half-light — silent, sacred, alive. The smell of earth and gunpowder mingled faintly in the cooling air. Somewhere far off, a crow called once, sharp and distant, a note of memory against the hush.

Jack stood at the edge of a clearing, his hands resting on an old rifle — not as a weapon, but as an inheritance. Jeeny sat on a weathered log, her notebook open, her eyes tracing the slow rhythm of his movements. Between them, the quote rested in the center of her page, written in clean black ink:

“Yes, I grew up with guns. For my 16th birthday, in fact, I received a .357 instead of a car. But there was nothing playful about them; they were tools. My parents went through a back-to-the-land phase. Most of our vegetables and fruits came from our own garden.” — Benjamin Percy

Jeeny: “It’s strange, isn’t it? How calm that sounds — like guns and gardens could exist in the same breath. Violence and cultivation. Power and patience.”

Jack: “They always have. You plant with one hand and protect with the other. That’s not contradiction — that’s survival.”

Host: The light faded, the trees slowly turning to silhouettes. Jack’s voice was low, deliberate, almost reverent — the kind of tone one uses when speaking about something sacred and dangerous.

Jack: “You know what I like about this quote? There’s no romance in it. No mythology. Just practicality. The gun isn’t glory. It’s a tool. Like a hoe. Like a hammer.”

Jeeny: “And yet it carries history — and danger. You can’t separate a gun from what it represents. It may be a tool, but it’s also a choice. A philosophy, even.”

Jack: “It’s just steel and powder. The philosophy comes from the hand holding it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Which is why it matters who holds it.”

Host: The wind moved through the trees — soft, cold, whispering like memory itself. Jeeny closed her notebook and stood, her boots crunching against the leaves.

Jeeny: “His words make me think of my grandfather. He had a shotgun by the door, but he never used it for sport. Only when the coyotes came too close to the chickens. He said it wasn’t about fear — it was about respect. You don’t hold something that can kill without remembering that it can.”

Jack: “Your grandfather was right. My father said the same thing. He used to tell me: ‘A gun doesn’t make you powerful; it reminds you you’re not.’”

Jeeny: “And did you believe him?”

Jack: “Not at sixteen. I thought power came from control — from mastering something dangerous. But the older I get, the more I realize control’s an illusion. The tool shapes you as much as you shape it.”

Host: The sunlight vanished completely now, leaving only the cool blue of twilight. A faint smoke rose from the distant chimney of a farmhouse below the ridge. Jeeny wrapped her arms around herself, her breath visible in the cold.

Jeeny: “You know what I think Percy was saying? That power and creation aren’t opposites. His family grew food from the earth, fed themselves — but they also carried guns, because beauty doesn’t protect itself.”

Jack: “And that’s the paradox of living close to the land. It teaches you how gentle and cruel survival really is.”

Jeeny: “But there’s tenderness in that cruelty, isn’t there? To kill a deer and thank it. To build your home with your own hands. It’s not violence — it’s participation.”

Jack: “Exactly. Civilization turned survival into spectacle. Out here, it’s sacred. A rifle, a plow, a seed — they all serve the same god: necessity.”

Host: He looked out toward the treeline, his face half-shadowed by dusk. The world around them seemed to hold its breath.

Jeeny: “Do you think that kind of life — the one he describes — still exists?”

Jack: “Not really. We’ve made everything easy. We buy what we used to earn. We consume what we used to create. People don’t garden anymore; they scroll. They don’t hunt for food; they hunt for validation.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s what we’ve lost — reverence. For work. For danger. For the things that keep us alive.”

Jack: “Reverence takes time. And we’ve sold time for comfort.”

Host: The silence deepened, filled only by the hum of insects and the quiet sigh of trees. Jeeny moved closer to the fire pit and crouched down, striking a match. The small flame flared, a golden whisper against the dark.

Jeeny: “It’s strange how something so primitive feels like prayer. Fire. Soil. The sound of wind through leaves. Maybe that’s why Percy’s words feel so heavy — because they come from a time when people still remembered how to belong.”

Jack: “You think we’ve forgotten?”

Jeeny: “No. I think we’ve just stopped listening. To the land. To ourselves. To the balance between making and taking.”

Jack: “Balance. That’s the word. The gun and the garden — they balance each other. One takes, one gives. Without both, the cycle breaks.”

Host: The firelight grew stronger, painting their faces in flickering amber. Jack reached down, picked up a handful of dirt, and let it sift slowly through his fingers.

Jack: “My mother used to garden. Same way Percy described. Rows of tomatoes, beans, corn. She said the soil was honest — it never gave you what you didn’t work for.”

Jeeny: “And your father?”

Jack: “He taught me how to shoot. Said the same thing — a bullet, like a seed, should never be wasted.”

Jeeny: “So you grew up between them — the nurturer and the protector.”

Jack: “Yeah. And sometimes I think both sides are still fighting inside me.”

Host: Jeeny smiled faintly, her eyes glimmering with something that wasn’t quite pity, but understanding — the kind of understanding that comes from carrying one’s own contradictions.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what we all are — half garden, half gun. Building and destroying in equal measure, hoping one side doesn’t win completely.”

Jack: “You think we can ever live without one?”

Jeeny: “No. Because even the most peaceful person carries some form of defense — and even the most hardened one still plants something they hope will grow.”

Host: The fire crackled louder now, defiant against the encroaching dark. They sat in silence for a while — two figures bound by flame, reflection, and the ghost of a truth older than either of them.

Jack: “You know, I used to think peace was the absence of danger. But maybe it’s just the balance of it — knowing how to live beside it without letting it consume you.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly what he was describing. A life not sanitized, but sanctified — by labor, by awareness, by respect for the things that can both feed and kill you.”

Jack: “Respect. That’s what’s missing now.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the only way back to it is to get our hands dirty again — literally.”

Host: The flames rose, their glow casting long shadows behind them. The night had swallowed the world beyond the fire’s reach, leaving only their circle of light — intimate, fragile, eternal.

Jeeny: “He said he got a gun for his sixteenth birthday instead of a car. Most people would call that strange. But maybe it’s a lesson — that maturity isn’t speed, it’s responsibility.”

Jack: “A car takes you away from home. A gun reminds you where home ends.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The wind changed direction, and for a moment, the fire bent low, bowing to the darkness before flaring up again.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s all life really is — tending to the garden and guarding its edges.”

Jack: “And learning not to confuse protection with control.”

Host: They looked at each other then — two shapes lit by the same flickering truth. The fire’s reflection danced in their eyes like a shared secret.

And as the first stars began to puncture the sky above the trees, Benjamin Percy’s words took root in the air between them —

a reminder that strength and tenderness are siblings,
that the hand that plants must also learn restraint,
and that in the true rhythm of survival,
both the gun and the garden
are acts of faith.