I didn’t shoot my eye out. Not with a BB gun anyhow. And,
not in one of the many BB gun wars we waged in the cow pasture to the west of
Denton Road on Binghamton’s south side. (The area is now populated with houses,
but back then it was a war zone in the summer, a toboggan & ski resort in
the winter). No, I did it much later in life, when a tree branch shot back into
my eye on a riverbank in Owego. But that’s a story for another day. An old coot
story. This is a kid story.
My, “didn’t” shoot my eye out story took place after I’d
paid my dues for years and finally waited expectantly, like Ralphie in A
Christmas Story, to find a Daisy Red Ryder BB gun under the Christmas tree.
I’d posed for dorky Christmas cards with my sister Madeline, year after year.
I’d forgone my desire for a BB gun and asked for eye safe toys: footballs,
sleds, board games and electric trains. But when I turned 10 in 1952, I decided
it was time to launch the campaign. Woody, my friend from the next block, had
access to BB rifles and BB pistols. I used him and his gun friendly parents as
the centerpiece of my case. But, things looked pretty glum. My mother batted
every pitch I threw her way out of the park. “Woody has one, why can’t I?” -
“Because you’ll lose an eye!” This was
before the term “shoot-your-eye-out” came into vogue. You lost things in those
days. Your eye. Your arm. Your life.
“No I won’t! Woody didn’t!” She pointed out that Woody wore
glasses; his eyes were protected. Something I knew all too well. Especially
after so recently doing the dishes for 25 cents every night until I’d earned
three dollars to pay for the pair I’d broken in one of our backyard
disagreements.
“We don’t shoot at each other. We just pretend to shoot,” I
argued, lie that it was, with me sporting a tender, red-rimmed pockmark from
taking one in the leg just that morning.
“We only shoot at stuff,” I said, adding to my lie. She was
too smart for that one. She was as concerned for the “stuff” as she was for my
eye. She knew the stuff included dopey robins that sat still while enduring
shot after shot. Squirrels that scampered back and forth making the game even
more exciting. The glass window pains in Mr. Soldo’s garage, Mrs. Bowen’s tulips
and the Merz’s dog. But, I had an answer for all those damaged goods. It was
home made arrows that errantly misfired in a game of cowboys and Indians. “A BB
gun is accurate; it would never damage stuff, ” was my weak-brained argument.
The whole thing was of her making anyhow. She’s the one who
dressed me in cowboy suits since before I could walk, who equipped me with 2
six-guns and helped me mount a wooden rocking horse in the driveway with my
faithful dog Lassie at my side. How did she not see this growing into lust for
a weapon that could really fire? A BB gun!
Christmas finally came, in those waning days of Truman’s
presidency. It took what seemed like years, those four weeks following
Thanksgiving, when the count down started. But it came. Christmas morning on
Chadwick Road. Under the tree was a three-foot long, slender package with my
name on it. I saved it for last. I unwrapped the mittens knitted by my aunt in
Connecticut. And, like the other pairs she sent every year, they were too short
and would leave me with red, raw wrists when I played outside in the cold.
Next came a pair of ski pajamas, the fashion rage of the
day. Then, a big surprise, a radio of my own. A radio for my room, so Woody and
I could listen to Sergeant Preston of the Yukon, Suspense and The Shadow in
private. Finally came the long skinny box. I tore off the paper. The carton
underneath didn’t say Daisy Air Rifle: it was unmarked. I didn’t care; I’d
settle for an off brand. I pried open the lid and pulled out the weapon. A
single shot, ping-pong ball rifle!
My chagrin lasted less than an hour; I found the lemonade in
the lemons. I could shoot at people. I could shoot at stuff! I no longer have
that eye-safe, engine of warfare from the 1950’s. But, I do have a BB gun, a
Daisy Red Ryder Carbine, No. 111, Model 40. My wife, tired of my complaining,
found it in an antique store and gave it to me for Christmas in 1983, the same
year A Christmas Story aired and Ralphie got his. It’s a little scuffed
up and the squirrels laugh out loud when I stand guard at our bird feeder, but
it shoots just fine. And, I haven’t shot out my eye out! Now, if I could only
get the old south side warriors together, the Almy, Burtis and Spangoletti
brothers, Woody, Warren and Buzzy, for one last BB-gun battle, my story would
have a perfect ending. Long overdue.
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| a dorky Christmas Card example |
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| another dorky card with my sister Madeline |
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| Me and my dog Lassie (where my bb gun trouble began) |
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