My mother was always gun-shy, but finally relented and allowed her then-boyfriend Frank and she to gift a Crosman pneumatic multi-pump something-or-other to my brother for Christmas in around 1982. He was fifteen and I was sixteen. We knocked around with it for a while, and I remember it being pretty easy to hit what we shot at most of the time.
One night, maybe a month or two later, he borrowed a new BMX bike from our other brother (his Christmas gift; he was eleven years old) and rode off in the neighborhood. Mom was at work (no dad in the picture.) After he'd been gone long enough to arouse concern, I jumped on my motorcycle and went out looking for him. I found him in the parking lot of a nearby grocery store, accompanied by three police officers. The gun was in the hands of one of them being unloaded. Someone had called in a report of a guy with a rifle riding a bicycle there.
The officer was going to detain him until we could reach my mother to come pick him up. I mentioned in conversation with that officer that I was with the local volunteer fire department. Probably not realizing that I was not yet 18 years old, he agreed to release my brother to me, but kept the gun, saying it would be released only to my mother if she came to the station. We thanked him and rode off. My brother swore both me and our other to secrecy, not wanting to get in trouble with Mom, essentially agreeing to lose the gun.
A few weeks later, all of us, Mom included, were watching TV one night when there was a knock at the door. I answered it, finding the officer there. He asked to speak to Mom, wanting to know when or if she intended to come pick up the gun. We were busted.
That did it for BB guns for him (she did let me buy a .22 rifle from Frank, now her husband, when I was nineteen.)