The call, as I guess Mom suspected, was because her father died.

One of his possessions we inherited was a beautiful silver .38 revolver. Firearms of many kinds were all over rural Ohio in those days. Autumn was a dangerous time to be a deer or pheasant there or a little kid playing frontiersman in the bushes.

Dad’s childhood came on a dairy farm in rural western Canada in the years before electricity. “You need to know about guns,” Dad had said. So, we took a thick board out back and leaned it against a tree.

Dad pulled out this shiny pistol. “Here,” he said. “It’s not loaded.”

I reached for the gun. With no warning, the thing went off with a huge bang and blasted a large hole in the board. I may have yelled an unpleasant word. Dad was just standing there, all calm and fatherly.

“You said the gun wasn’t loaded!” I screamed.

“Everyone says the gun’s not loaded,” Dad replied.

That’s another thing my father said.