Maybe if I’d have had a conceal-carry permit instead of a shovel it would have been easier to explain to my lower North Mankato neighbors.

But more on that later.

The state’s conceal-carry law, allowing people with permits to carry loaded handguns, hasn’t been much in the news since it was passed six years ago. That’s because nothing’s happened. Even as the number of permit holders grows to more than 67,000, hardly a shot has been fired by anyof them beyond the target range.

Still, there is angst among those who fear the next OK Corral shoot-out is just a road-rage incident away. So the media coverage of the gun-toting highway cleanup crew in Mendota Heights last week was to be expected.

A group called Minnesota Carry Permit Holders decided to show they are the same as any other good-citizens group by adopting a segment of Highway 55. They set out to pick up ditch trash, carrying .40-caliber semi-automatics and other handguns strapped to their hip.

People’s views on conceal-carry — or guns in general — usually hinge on where they live in the state, whether they grew up in rural areas, or came from hunting families.

In Duluth recently, I saw several stores with big signs declaring “We welcome guns on our premises.”

In Brainerd, the City Council is debating whether they should tighten up the gun regulations in the city limits, which now allows for hunting and firing of weapons in most cases. The public there doesn’t seem wildly supportive of the idea.

Growing up on a farm, guns were just another tool, be it your first Daisy BB gun or the .22 hanging in the barn. There were tin cans to be plunked and skunks under the chicken coop to be shot.

Those who grew up and live in cities may change their views as animals have increasingly found urban living to their liking. My colleague John Cross, who walks his dog in the early mornings through his St. Peter neighborhood, has seen everything from woodchucks and raccoons to coyotes and a badger.

Monday night, as I pulled my half-full garbage can out of the garage and set it in the breeze-way, I had my own heart-stopping face-to-face with one of our wooded friends. As I set the can down and looked inside, a gapping pink jaw with jagged teeth was hissing at me. An opossum, who’d snuck in, crawled up a chair and launched himself into what must have smelled like a buffet, hadn’t thought about how to get out.

Figuring he’d had a tough enough time already, I decided to bring the can out front, tip it over and let him go on his way. But checking later, it was obvious he was too far gone and couldn’t walk out.

Thinking dispatching him was the kindest route, I got my shovel and proceeded to give him my strongest blows. But animals don’t go easily. It took more whacks to end his suffering.

That’s when I saw the neighbor woman walking toward her door, looking at me in the growing darkness. I maybe should have gone behind the garage instead of the front yard.

I thought of going over to explain things to her, but what exactly would I say?

“Was just whoopin’ a possum. Granny and Ellie May are gonna cook it up in a stew.”

I don’t think it would allay her worries.

I should have just shot it with a handgun. Could have told her I was picking up some trash near the street when I was attacked by a wild animal. She probably would have felt better.

Tim Krohn is a Free Press staff writer. He can be contacted at 344-6383 or

email him Tim by clicking here