In the classic holiday movie “The Cristmas Story” the plot revolves around a BB gun being lobbied for and the mother not buying it because it could put an eye out.

Thank God my mother didn’t think like that. If she had, I would be absent many of my most precious childhood memories, memories that center around a child growing up in and around a small Nebraska town and the Daisy BB gun that was his treasured companion for many years.

It was a Christmas gift, and I couldn’t have been more than 7 when I tore through the wrapping paper and beheld my prize for the first time. My father was an avid pheasant and duck hunter, and he no doubt wanted to introduce me to the exalted world of firearms so he could share his passion with his sons {my brother got one too that year), and he thought a BB gun would be a good place to start.

We didn’t get off to an impressive start. Next door to our house stood an abandoned chicken house with dozens of small windows panes on the front side. The day after Christmas found my brother and I in a furious competition to see who could shoot out the most panes of glass. We did in those panes gleefully and innocently, one after the other, mindful of our newfound God-like power to destroy things at a distance of 30 feet or more.

Only after the chicken house owner discovered the destruction a few days later and tagged us as the perps to our father did it occur to us that maybe we had done something wrong. This premonition was strongly reinforced in our young minds after “the board” was employed on our backsides and allowances were forfeited for what seemed like an eternity to pay for replacing the windows. I believe we also had to turn in our shooting irons for a season, but eventually we got them back. Had we not, I might well be a golfer today instead of a hunter.

What a great time I had with that gun!

There was the time we were staying with Uncle Jack and Aunt Marie at their farm while our parents vacationed without us. It was, without a doubt, the best ten days of my life up to that point. We roped and rode calves, milked cows, gathered eggs, played hide-and-seek in their huge old barn, got filthy every day and clean every night in an ancient claw foot bathtub, but most of all, we stalked and shot sparrows with our BB guns for hours every day with the dedication of Navy Seal snipers.

Why the single-minded devotion to sparrow killing? Simply put, we were hired guns. Early in our stay, Uncle Jack had taken us to his machinery shed, pointing out that his machinery was pretty much covered with sparrow poop due to a large population of the feathered varmints that were ensconced in the rafters of the building. “You boys take all the time you want,” (i.e. this should keep you out of my hair for awhile, you citified little brats!), and I’ll pay you a nickel apiece for every sparrow you get.”

I can truthfully report that no Old West bounty hunter ever pursued their prey with more single-minded determination than we did after that business proposition. The quarry would be spotted, a stalk would ensue and a carefully-aimed shot would (sometimes) dispatch the hapless victim, with the body count increasing hourly. When our parents showed up to reclaim us after ten days, we both considered running away.

Another BB gun memory concerns a giant bullfrog hereafter referred to as Bigthroat.

Bigthroat lived in a sandpit close to our house. Twice as large as any other frog, with a voice like a foghorn, he was the center of attention at the sandpit, yet as elusive as Greta Garbo in retirement.

One fateful day I heard him bellowing below a steep bank, peeked over the edge and beheld him sitting at water’s edge. Prudence dictated that I signal my brother, who was armed with a bow (a much more efficient weapon, the arrow being able to pin the frog down), and give him the shot at Bigthroat. I frantically motioned for him, he came running, and I quickly reconsidered letting him get the shot and the subsequent glory for the slaying of the giant. Besides, wasn’t my Daisy also a lethal weapon of the first order? Just as he began to maneuver for a shot, I put the gun to my shoulder and pulled the trigger. I hit the monster squarely in the back, but he hopped into the depths, seemingly unscathed.

“You idiot!” my brother screamed, “Why didn’t you let me shoot him with the bow?” I was just beginning a very lame explanation when all at once the bullfrog’s very dead body came floating up from the depths, a delayed-reaction death but fried frog legs in the pan nonetheless. All in all, a memorable hunt.

The memory gates are open now and there would be volumes more if space permitted, but suffice it to say that it all began because I had parents wise enough to let boys be boys. Yes, I suppose we could have put an eye out, and I imagine that possibility was factored into the equation as they discussed the wisdom in buying the guns for their two boys. In the end, they chose to arm us, and in doing so created some cherished memories that still provoke a profound gratitude in their son 50 years later.



Olson is a former teacher and currently an antiques dealer in the Sellersburg area. He can be reached via e-mail at dgolsonwriteon@yahoo.com.