When I was a kid, I had what I guess you’d call a good childhood. Two parents that loved me. Good school. Three squares a day. The usual. A big part of growing up revolved around my toy chest, which was filled with guns. Toy guns. Back then, that was not unusual. I had six-shooters and a lever-action carbine (in my “Cowboys & Indians Native Americans” phase), a nifty .38 snub-nosed revolver (my “hard-boiled detective” phase), a bazooka that shot a column of air across the room and a Matel M-16 Marauder (in my “Army” phase). I also had a collection of G.I. Joe action figures that was the envy of the neighborhood. (And, quite possibly, the root of my life-long fascination with Jeeps.) The crown jewel of my firearm collection: a Matel-made Remington cowboy belt buckle that featured a cap gun derringer in what looked like bas relief.
