When I was a child way back in the 1950's, Christmas was a whole lot simpler than it is today. Christmas meant that I'd get a break from school and hopefully indulge in fun things such as pond hockey and tobogganing. We spent a whole lot of time playing outdoors back then, and we'd rejoice when those fluffy white flakes of snow began to fall.
Unknown to us were computers, Ipods, video games and Facebook. Fun was a play that we wrote, directed and acted out with our buddies. Nevertheless, as Christmas approached and Eaton's catalog would arrive in fashion jackets our mailbox, excitement would start to build.
We'd thumb through the pages, eagerly checking out the latest in store-bought toys. We'd be overwhelmed with the shear quantity of items. We'd narrow our choices down to two or three, grab some paper and print our letters to Santa.
The Christmas that I was eight, I knew exactly what I wanted Santa to bring. For me there would be no second or third choice. There on page 38 of the 1956 Christmas catalog was the gift of my dreams. It was a handsome BB gun that looked like the real thing.
I labored over my letter, stating my wishes to the jolly old man, and popped it into the mail box. Every day I dreamed of my BB gun and the fun I'd have. I'd be so proud. The days leading up to Christmas dragged and the anticipation mounted.
My brother and I were up early on Christmas morning. It was still dark, my parents were sleeping. We eagerly peered into the living room. We rejoiced. Santa had indeed come. There were mysterious packages under the tree. However, we had to bide our time by exploring the contents of the stockings we had hung the night before.
Mom and Dad finally aroused and Mom threw the switch on the tree. The living room was alive with colored lights and sparkling tinsel. We made short work of opening the packages from our parents and cousins. Paper flew everywhere, but where was my special request from Santa?
Finally, from out behind the sofa, Dad pulled a brightly wrapped box and handed it to me. Could this be it? My fingers trembled as I untied the ribbon. I pulled off the lid and there lay my beautiful BB gun. Quick as lightening I pulled on my coat and boots and raced into the yard. Fence posts topped with tin cans became targets.
Ping, ping was the sound my shots made when hitting the cans. I was becoming quite adept with my aim. Then all of a sudden I heard an unfamiliar whooshing sound coming from behind the targets. There, before my eyes, I saw our neighbors inflatable Santa Claus imploding into a heap. Oh no, I had shot Santa.
Thankfully our neighbor agreed that if I shoveled their sidewalk, and carried wood for the fireplace, during the holidays, he'd call it even. I was careful thereafter to set up my tin cans somewhere else.
These days, the children in my life, dream of electronics and merchandise influenced by movies and television shows. Of course they still need skates, snow racers, bicycles, and bats and balls.
They even enjoy some of the toys from my childhood such as wooden building blocks and View Master. But, as far as I know, none of them have ever asked Santa for a BB gun.
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