March 24, 1981. It was in the early morning hours, not long after midnight, and the young boy was wandering around the store looking for a warm spot. He seldomly got to see his dad, who ran the family business, and had decided to spend the night keeping his dad company while he worked the graveyard shift. He was impatient, as ten year olds are, and spent much of the night exploring the old convenience store, looking for both hiding spots and warm spots. He had found a few such places, the best of which was the unfinished attic. There was no floor, just dusty rafters filled with fluffy pink insulation, and the walls were just the plywood skin of the pitched roof, complete with roofing nails stabbing through, threatening to scalp you if you accidentally got too close. There was no door, no ladder, just a hole in the insulation at the top of a stack of grey metal shelves in the back storage room. Better yet, it was nice and toasty up there where the dry warm air from the gas furnace accumulated, making it the perfect place to give the boy a little respite from the boredom of watching his dad work, and the bitter cold that blew through the building every time the door opened. For a ten year old, it was Heaven.

A choice. No more. No less.

That’s why he had gone back to the front of the store, in search of his dad, to tell him about the little piece of Heaven he had found. He wasn’t in a hurry, though. He walked slowly, with his hands in his pockets, quietly staring at his shuffling feet, as he meandered first through the back storage rooms and then into the open store.

He was halfway to the front when he took his eyes off his feet and looked up to where his dad stood facing him behind the counter. Another man stood on the near side of the counter with his back turned to the boy. His dad was putting cash into a brown paper sack, and at first the boy didn’t understand what was happening. Then his dad gave the man the sack full of money, and the man wave a small nickle plated revolver and yelled at the boy’s dad to get on the floor and stay there.

Moments later, it seemed like hours, the boy’s dad yelled up into the attic, telling him to stay where he was. As soon as the boy had realized what was happening, he had turned around and ran, as quietly and quickly as he could, into the back storage room, climbed up the grey shelves, and into his newly discovered attic retreat.

His dad made sure it was safe and that the robber was gone, then called the police, before coming back and telling the boy that is was safe to come down out of the attic. Then, together, they called the boy’s mom. It was her birthday.

It was more than a quarter century ago that I was that ten year old little boy, scared to death, and hiding in that dusty, hot, nail lined attic. I don’t think that the trauma I faced that night had any lasting negative effect on me, but I’m sure that it has had a lot to do with many of the decisions I’ve made and how I’ve shaped myself as an adult. I don’t believe that we are shaped by our past, but I do believe that our past is the clay with which we mold our future. I just got a lot of clay to work with that night.

That experience has a lot to do with the number of surveillance cameras that I have in my stores, but it also has a lot to do with my decision to pretty much always have a sidearm with me. I have been asked several times over the years — by friends, family, employees, and other acquaintances who have, by chance, noticed the handgun that is usually concealed inside my waistband — why I carry it. Why do I think I need it? Do I think I’ll ever have to use it? Recently, one of my children asked me these questions, and it made me realize that I should really think about it, and give an honest and thorough answer.

I know what you are thinking, but you are wrong. I don’t carry a sideearm because I’m afraid. I don’t carry a sidearm because of some subconscious fear of being robbed or victimized. I don’t carry a sidearm out of fear at all. I know that would be the most obvious reason, and if it was the real reason, I would be more than justified. The fear of being victimized, especially after facing that kind of trauma, can be a powerful motivator. If being armed allayed that fear, then that would be more than enough reason for me to carry a gun. The reason I choose to be armed though, is a little more complicated than that.

On the night that Dad was robbed, the man who robbed him made a choice to become a criminal. He made the choice to put on a mask, come into the store, and point his gun at an innocent man. It was his choice to commit armed robbery and take money that didn’t belong to him. What he never realized though, was that surviving that night wasn’t his choice at all.

What the man didn’t realize was that at one point during the robbery my dad was holding his own pistol, under the counter, and in the process of pulling the trigger, when he saw me walk into the store from the back storage rooms. It was my dad who made the choice to let go of the trigger, put his gun down, and give the man the money he demanded. It was my dad who made the choice to give up his hard earned money, and to let the armed robber slip away into the night, rather than shoot and kill him in front of his ten year old son. It was my dad who made the choice to allow that man to live.

Someday, God forbid, I could be faced with a situation in which I have to make a similar choice. It is the nature of my business that puts me at a constant risk of armed robbery, and let’s face it, every family is at risk to become the target of any number of random violent crimes. If something like that ever happens, I want the choice of the outcome to be mine. If someone ever comes into one of my stores and points a gun at me, I want it to be my choice whether to take the money out of the cash register and give it to him, or send him away in a body bag.  If someone ever attempts to carjack me, I want it to be my choice whether I step out of my vehicle and let the carjacker take it, or send him away in a body bag. If someone ever invades my home, I want it to be my choice whether I stay barricaded in a safe room while they take what they want, or send them away in a body bag. I want it to be my choice.

Without my sidearm, concealed discreetly in my belt, I don’t have a choice. Without my sidearm, if someone ever comes into one of my stores and points a gun at me, all I can do is hope he doesn’t care if he leaves a witness. Without my sidearm, if someone ever tries to take my car, all I can do is hope that the carjacker doesn’t put a bullet in me if I don’t get out of it fast enough. Without my sidearm, if someone ever invades my home, all I can do is hope that they don’t injure or kill my family. Without my sidearm, I don’t have a choice.

As long as I am armed, the outcome is my choice. As long as I am armed, I can give him the money out of my cash register and let him walk away, because I choose to. As long as I am armed, I can calmly step out of my vehicle and let him drive away in it, because I choose to. As long as I am armed, I can make sure my family is safe, then let him leave my home with his loot, because I choose to. As long as I am armed, I can choose.

I have surveillance cameras all over my stores because their silent presence has deterred similar events in the many years since that night. While almost every other store in town has been robbed since, ours have not. I believe that it’s because when the likely thieves come in to look around, they see all the cameras and choose to find victims elsewhere. I also use the cameras to help me take care of my stores, and protect myself from dishonest customers and employees. They are a tool that gives me a choice in how I manage my business. And like those surveillance cameras that quietly watch over my stores and give me discreet control of them, my sidearm is merely a tool that I use to make sure that I have control over my own life. It is a tool that gives me a choice. No more, no less.

What I really learned that night, so many years ago, was to not be afraid, to not live in fear. What I learned from Dad that night is that you can always be in control of your own life, no matter what, if you choose to be.