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The Christmas Gun Memories of childhood have no perceptible beginnings, no obvious order and no end. They arrive unbidden, often on the flimsiest of pretexts. One minute you are a perfectly reasonable, obliging listener of the other man’s tale, when out of the blue, your tale arrives, full blown, wrapped in your own special glow of remembrance, your own “spin,” as they say nowadays. The other chap pauses to tip his mug and you charge into the breach. “Did I ever tell you about my first major, full-blown, Christmas crisis, “ you deftly interject. “It happened about this time of year, just before Christmas.” My companion of the moment, thrown off stride, pauses as if actually considering the question, perhaps simply figuring he could down two or three more gulps before getting back to his own tale. But the bald interrogatory has left its mark. “Can’t say that you have,” he murmurs, knowing full well it’s a throw-away, the jig is up. He orders another ‘round. “I was probably eight years old…that would make it Christmas of ’44. War time. Not like it is today, but a big world war. Nobody had anything. Everything was rationed – food, tires, gas, nylons. Lots of jobs – war production mostly – but there was nothing to buy. Toy manufacturers couldn’t waste precious metal on something as frivolous as toy trucks and trains. Most of the plastics we have today hadn’t been invented yet, so the toy companies resorted to wood and cardboard to fill the demand.”“What in the hell could they make out of cardboard,” he asks. “The usual puzzles and board games, of course, but I recall one year a very ingenious gaudily painted boxed set that included a heavy-duty cardboard cylindrical pump affair, painted Army olive green, that, when retracted and pumped shot a “rocket.” The rocket was also made of cardboard with a wooden nose cone and could be shot clear across the room to ‘take out’ the enemy’s tank, also made of cardboard. This, of course, was immediately put to use to ambush and terrorize my sisters, the real enemy to an eight-year old. “You’d probably get a fortune today on eBay for that thing,” he remarks. “Probably, but what I mainly got was a furious dressing down by my mother who claimed I could take an eye out with that “cannon,” and who, in turn, rounded on my dad for buying the thing in the first place. But, like all boys of that time what I really wanted was a gun. A real, honest to goodness, gun, BB style. A Red Ryder special would fill the bill nicely.” “Not very likely, eh? Not with everything going to the war.” “Right. But still, hope sprang eternal. And every boy’s Christmas wish list throughout the neighborhood included the BB gun. After all, it was war time…how could the legions of pre-adolescent young men prepare for and defend the nation without guns! Deep down we were all in training. Unlike today, we followed the war, were part of the great effort. And you can’t be a soldier without a gun.”“So how did this lead to a crisis. Sounds like you’re just out of luck for Christmas.” “It started innocently enough. Sure, I’d made my wishes known but had all but given up on getting a gun for Christmas. I happened to be home alone after school a few days before the holiday. I had two older brothers and an older sister; one of these would normally have been there also. And my parents and younger sister were also absent for some reason or other. Typically I would have been on my way out to sled ride or skate or something. But the doorbell rang and a mailman with a large parcel was banging on the door. Later we were to learn that he had kindly decided to deliver the parcel on his way home from work, rather than wait for next day regular delivery.”“Because it was so close to Christmas, “ he offers. “And because my Grandmother Austin had emphatically scrawled “Deliver before December 22!” all over the long, heavily wrapped package tied with stout cord. You see, on top of everything, else my birthday falls on the 22nd . So I received a lot of “combo” gifts each year. And wonder of wonders, it was clearly addressed to me. Not too often would an eight-year old boy or girl receive a package in the mail in those days. Youngsters hadn’t yet risen to that level of recognition in the eyes of the old postal service. Normally, such missives would be addressed “in care of” an adult. But not this day. This package definitely was intended for me.” “And when I opened the door to take the package I could see by its shape that this was not an ordinary item. About three feet long, about six inches across, it rattled slightly. Upon closer inspection I was able to make out a short protrusion or bump where something was trying to poke through the heavy paper wrapping. All those hours of gazing at pictures of the Red Ryder Special Edition helped me determine that this was probably the raised receiver ring for the leather lanyard. Mother must have mentioned my wish to Grandma Mae. This must be the gun!” “So did you open it? Was it the gun?” “Well, I had a slight problem. Also printed on the other side was another message: “Don’t open before Xmas!” in big bold letters. So there I stood, transfixed, the only sound my own heavy breathing and the ticking hall clock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Someone will be coming home any minute. Tick. Tock. Good little boys don’t open gifts early. Tick Tock Tick. Good little boys follow instructions. Good little boys go to heaven.”“Thoughts of eternal damnation were not upper most in my mind as I relentlessly shredded the wrapping. Grandma certainly knew her knots and a quick trip to the kitchen for a knife dispatched the web of twine. Slowly it emerged, I’d clean up the mess later. Sure enough, it was a gun.” “The Red Ryder? Did she include some BB’s? “Well, no. Not exactly. It was what we called a G-man’s gun, the sort of thing the FBI guys in the movies used to mow down rows and rows of gangsters. It was wood, painted black. The barrel, a simple broomstick-like dowel, sported a brass pin for a front sight. And best of all, it included a wooden crank which, when turned rapidly, emitted a clattering rat-a-tat-tat just like the real thing. A humble affair, it was clearly the best the war-torn toy company could offer at the time. But it WAS a gun! Not pajamas, not books, not socks. And from Grandma, to boot! Man, what a gift.” “Where’s the crisis. Sounds like you simply got a substitute.” “The crisis occurred soon after. So enraptured was I with the new weapon – gunning down dozens of those distant overseas enemy troops as they tried to take me out, first in the living room, then from ambushes set up in the hall closet – I lost track of time.” “When my mother stepped through the front door, saw the paper wrappings, froze in mid stride, I, still reveling in my war games fantasy and dutifully at my post behind the dining room door, leaped out and let fly with a mighty fuselage of rat-a-tat-tats. Gottcha! Look mom, look what Grandma Austin sent me.” “Thomas,” she intoned in a strained, chilled and very level voice, “What did it say. What did it say on the package. Answer me! Now!” “Man, I’ll bet you got your hide tanned, but good,” groaned my patient listener. “I wont relate the ensuing lecture that lasted well onto bedtime. I wont tell of over hearing my mother’s call to Grandma to explain that the “surprise” didn’t exactly work out as they had planned. I wont even try to suggest the terrible suspense and agony of waiting out the ensuing days, full of dread, in anticipation of what I might NOT see under the tree.” “Well, it was Christmas,” he says sympathetically. “Things happen at Christmas. Happens all the time.” “Funny, isn’t it, what you remember…almost like it happened yesterday,” I reply. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I remember in my family on Christmas we always had to …” I bought the next ‘round. |
