Of all things, the gun, of all things, must be particularized.
Like a lot of Americans, I grew up in a house were guns were ordinary. There was a gun rack over the bookshelf in the hall outside my bedroom door. Now that I think about it, about the same square-footage of wall was devoted to both sorts of objects.
The books were all older than I was. Cowboy romances mostly...
|"Put up your hands a little higher, Mr. Man!"|
Rim O' the World
B.M. Bower 1919**
These things happen in homes where guns are ordinary things.
You know the rule of Chekhov's gun? Any gun on the mantlepiece in act one is bound to go off by act three. I resist that when I'm writing. I think it may be because I never want to see act three in my ordinary world, where guns are ordinary objects.
*This is all stuff that happened before I was born. My account is not reliable.
**B.M. is not the sort of pen-name any girl would choose nowadays.