My brother was 10 years older than me. He gave me the most age-inappropriate stuff, the stuff he wanted and used at age 16, he would give to me, at age 6, for Christmas. I remember opening the box from him, hidden far behind he tree, where my prying eyes and clinging fingers would be hard pressed to find it. It was small, even smaller than my kid size shoe box...rattled enough, and the weight inside shifted as I shook the box. After tearing it open, I found a shiny metal cylinder, with a handle on the side. It didn't look like any toy that was on my list....then my brother reached behind the couch, and pulled out a .22 bolt action rifle; he had wrapped the bolt as my gift, certain I would recognize the shape & size of a gun under the tree. He handed me the rifle, and helped my install the bolt....pure bliss-clack, zzzzzip, clack...the sound of that bolt cocking, sliding, and locking into place. That became the one great thrill, the thill of the unexpected, the excitement of seeing it come together, the pleasure of having someone care enough to take the time to teach me to respect, and use firearms. Now, nearly 50 years later, my memory is still vivid...the weight of that rifle, cheek on the stock, sighting just like brother George told me, the sharp crack, the smell of rimfire gunpowder, all coalesce into the giving spirit of my brother; the gift of the rifle, and the gift of his time and council to his 6 year old brother.