In the summer of ’62 I was given an ancient single-barrel shotgun, which would no longer open and that my folks were satisfied was harmless. The things I remember best about it are its weight, its comforting coat of rust and that it was longer than I was tall. I dragged it around outside, like a pissant with a match… not quite knowing what to do with it, but convinced that it was just too cool to leave alone. Finally one day, by using both thumbs, gritting my teeth and seeing stars- I was able to get the hammer back! This became easier over time and with oil purloined from the can next to Momma’s old sewing machine.

Christmas Eve came and relatives arrived, dragging small children in tow. Among them was a very loud and pesky little girl, incessantly blabbering about Santa and his reindeer. Outside, a heavy snow blanketed our little cabin in the holler.

The ‘big folks’ were off in the kitchen talking about who-knows-what, when some snow slid off the roof. She became ecstatic, certain that the reindeer had landed and that Santa would soon be coming down the chimney! The stupidity of this was more than I could bear; for cryin’ out loud we had a WOODSTOVE and Santa, along with our gifts, would have been burned to cinders. I blurted “I’m gonna shoot Santa off the roof!!” Her mouth gaped open in horror; and I reveled in the moment.

Gaining my composure (well as much as you have at six) I folded a half-dozen roll caps until they would fit under the hammer of that old shotgun. I usually used three, but this was a special occasion and special effects were called for. I pulled on my boots, grabbed the old shotgun and headed out into the snow. The cherub followed me to the door, piehole still open and with her hands on her face, like that little ‘Home Alone’ kid.

I walked to the eaves and thumbed the hammer back. I yelled “Take that, Santa!” then hauled the muzzle up as high as I could-and pulled the trigger.

You know, six caps make quite a flash and danged if it didn’t come straight out from between the hammer and frame, about where my nose happened to be. I don’t know whether it was the BANG or the child’s screeching that brought Mom out in the snow in her low-cuts; but the effect was that my nostrils were scorched and I was getting towed through the snow by an ear, apparently designed expressly for that purpose. In the melee, my glorious Santa Cannon got tossed in the snow. I got swatted and sent up to the loft with threats of switches for Christmas. I finally dozed off, convinced I’d be sold to Ishmaelites at the first opportunity. I never did see that old shotgun again… and that kid don’t like me much, even to this day.

Christmas came with daybreak and despite my recent malfeasance, there was a Daisy Cub under the tree. This was in the days before the lever safety and I learned right quick that if you pulled the trigger with the lever open, it would slam shut on your fingers like a mousetrap. With the new BB gun came warnings of the fate that would befall me, if I misused it- and being no fool, I took them seriously. Well, mostly. I did manage to shoot myself in the toe with it, once; and once was enough to convince me it was a poor practice. That little Daisy probably taught me more about gun safety than any ‘real’ gun I ever owned.