For now, my annual Christmas post . . .
“You’ll put your eye out.” – A Christmas Story
Nobody was too concerned with my eyes. But do NOT make us have to pay for a neighbor’s window.
(This was first published in 2018, but I’ve made some slight edits. Merry Christmas!)
I’m a believer in Christmas – it’s a time of redemption and rebirth that proves that miracles can happen. People can escape their past, and become something more than they were before – they can become reborn. We can become better. The birth of Christ is an example that we can all be reborn and change our lives in a miraculous and meaningful way.
But, I’m not sure I can recall any particular Christmas miracles.
Oh, wait, here’s one. It’s mostly true, as well as I can recall, and field-tested to read aloud to your family:
On Christmas Day when I was in second grade, the one thing I wanted more than anything else was . . . a BB-Gun. No, this is not a remake of A Christmas Story, this is A Wilder Story. And I was there for this one.
As I recall, this was the last Christmas when we opened Christmas presents on Christmas morning. In all following years, my older brother John Wilder and I wheedled our parents into a Christmas Eve opening of everything but “Santa” gifts. We were insufferable. My brother (really) is also named John Wilder – my parents didn’t want to waste those extra birth announcements they had bought when they could just change the day and year, but that’s another story.
But that particular Christmas morning when I was in second grade I looked down on a real-life lever-action Daisy® BB gun. It looked like a real rifle even though the wood parts were plastic. I’d never shot a real rifle before, but I knew that all I wanted for Christmas was that BB gun. And there it was, all mine, pristine in its oiled metal and plastic perfection.
It looked very real. Mine was the one on the bottom. It was actually mistaken for a real rifle several times. Mainly by me, because everyone who was an adult could see it was just a BB gun.
“Take care of that, and it’ll last you a long time, Son,” Pop said as he handed me my first gun. This was the first time he’d said that to me, and I nodded gravely, feeling the responsibility and pride deep inside me. Pop would later repeat that phrase about boots I got in high school, a Buck© pocket knife I got in fifth grade, and my first car.
I still have the BB gun and the boots. I lost the knife, probably at school. It was expected when I was a kid that you had a knife with you if you were in fifth grade, because what if you had to gut a fish during English class?
But I was in second grade, and I had a BB gun. My BB gun.
And I was ready to use it. I was given a quick tutorial on how to load it, a list of all the things (mainly windows), people (mainly windows), places (our windows), and forbidden objects (neighbor’s windows) that I shouldn’t even think of aiming my BB gun at, let alone shoot. I was trusted to take my new BB gun out on a Christmas morning expedition, because it was made clear to me in no uncertain terms that the worst punishment in the world would fall upon me if I shot something I shouldn’t. I would lose (probably until I was 40) my BB gun, be grounded from TV until I had my own children and probably be branded as a BB abuser for the rest of my life in my Permanent Record. (For kids: Permanent Record is now called Snapchat©.)
With the earnestness only a second grader can muster, I put on my deep blue Sears™ parka (the ad said it was designed for pilots stationed in . . . the ARCTIC, you know, where we fought the Soviets to save Santa from becoming, I guess, more Red) with polyester fur trim, and a pocket for pens and pencils on the arm, because where else would you keep pens and pencils except your left arm? I pulled on my black felt-lined snow boots and stiff green plastic gloves, and went outside. It was cold, certainly below freezing, and probably hovering around zero in non-communist units.
Like a pocket knife, every boy had a parka like this. Every boy. But does anyone know why pilots need parkas if they’re in heated jet airplanes?? Oh, yeah. Soviets. Image from E-Bay.
It had already snowed enough that the snow pile in our front yard was 10 feet (43 meters) deep, but we had a packed trail where our snowmobiles had gone onto the snow-packed country road and up into miles of forest roads that dated back to the old prospectors looking for gold.
My feet crunched in the snow as I walked due north onto the road, my breath puffing out as if from a small blue fake-fur-trimmed steam engine headed uphill. I kept going. What was I looking for? I’m not sure – I don’t remember, exactly. I guess, looking at stuff with a BB gun in my hand and shooting anything that wouldn’t get me in trouble with Ma Wilder at the rate of 6 BBs per step. But I felt like a man, and what would a man with a rifle do? Hunt. Win World War II again. Look for communists. It’s hazy, but I know I had a purpose.
Snakes weren’t a possibility, since I knew snakes wintered in Florida with baseball players, Santa and Cubans. Regardless, I wanted to shoot my BB gun, even if the opportunities to send Soviets back to Russia with a backside full of BBs was limited, at best. I still don’t recall ever seeing a Soviet in the forest until I saw Red Dawn, and then my BB gun was at home.
I guess Europe decided to sit this one out.
I trundled up the road. I think that’s probably the only time I’ve used the word “trundled” precisely since it implies I moved along slowly, noisily, and in a less than graceful manner. All of those applied. But I was ten feet tall with my BB gun, shooting aimed fire into snowbanks and sage brush alike. About a half a mile from my house, more than three-quarters of the way to the Old Cemetery, I saw it.
The Bear.
Sitting motionless, huddled against the barbed wire fence, not 20’ away, was the bear. It was a black bear. I knew that grizzly bears had been killed nearby, but this was definitely a black bear, being black and all. Ma Wilder had told me about them before going hiking and told me to never, ever get between a black bear cub and its mother – she said that was more dangerous than being between Beto O’Rourke and a microphone.
I didn’t know if this bear was cub-sized or mother-sized, but I already knew that this was something way out of my experience level – I mean I still wasn’t even coloring within the lines very well. Communists? Sure, I could take down a dozen of them since they were weak because they were Godless and fatherless and mainly starving when they weren’t swilling massive quantities of cheap Afghan vodka.
But bears? Better call the reinforcements (spelled D-A-D) in.
Calling out an APB on a tiny blonde boy. He looked tasty.
I backed away from the bear, keeping my eyes on it the whole time. My BB gun was loaded, a precious brass sphere ready to explode outward on a column of pressurized air at the bear should it charge me. I knew I was too slow to out-trundle the bear. Even my candy-cane addled brain knew that the BB was scant protection against a bear, but if I was going to go down, I was going to go down fighting like a man, and not running away like a weak Soviet child would. Even though it was nearly zero, I built up a sweat in my green turtle neck under my Air Force Pilot Parka®.
That green turtle-neck was really tight and made me look a lot like an actual turtle, so I only wore it three times. Why? A chubby kid covered in the smell of fear sweat and Nacho Cheese Doritos™ isn’t really a winner with the ladies despite whatever Bill Clinton might say.
An aside: In the safe realm of 2018, I know that it seems insane to allow a second grader to hike up into the forested wilderness alone at temperatures near zero on Christmas morning armed with a weapon that’s patently illegal to arm a second grader with in New York City, and twenty other states that are, no doubt, now deeply under the influence of the Soviets. Or, does it? When I last had a second grader (Pugsley) he had a BB gun and trundled off into the backyard with a zillion BBs. I can attest our backyard is now safely Soviet-free. But back in the day? We weren’t building weak Soviet children. No! We had backbones of steel and cheap Taiwanese Rambo® knives with compasses built into the handle.
So, yeah, not unusual. I guess it was a crazy thing called freedom. Anyway . . .
I got back to the house and threw open the door. I stamped my snow-covered feet inside. Yeah, I know, bad form. But I was in a hurry, I had real news and information for the family.
My parents were lounging on the couch, enjoying a quiet coffee.
“A BEAR!” I yelled.
“I swear, I saw it, a bear! It was just right up the road, right where the hill starts. A bear! A black one!”
Ma looked at Pop, concerned.
Pop Wilder shook his head. “Bears are hibernating. None are up this time of year, not when it’s this cold.”
“No, it was there, right by the fence.”
Ma Wilder nudged him, seeing the absolute certainty on my face. “We should take a look.”
There is a look a man gives a woman when he knows that he has lost the argument even before it started. I know that look because I saw it then. Pop sighed, got up, and got dressed. Half an hour later, he and Ma and my brother were all dressed, and ready to go up the road. I had my BB gun. I hoped that the bear would still be there.
We walked. I pointed, when the Bear came into sight, not 300 yards away.
“See, I told you.”
Ma Wilder looked concerned when she saw visual proof of my story. I think she had put my bear story into the category of “addled ravings of an overly imaginative eight-year old that may or may not process reality like a normal human after he told me that he was worried that Grandma would turn into a zombie (Sleep Deprivation, Health, Zombies, and B-Movies).”
As for me, I was concerned that Pop hadn’t brought bazookas, howitzers, grenades, or maybe a battleship. Nah, Pop Wilder could probably wrestle a dozen or so bears, if they came up to him one at a time, like in the Kung Fu movies. We finally got up to the road where we were perpendicular to the black bear, still huddled up against the fence, not 30 feet (432 meters) away. It hadn’t moved since I’d first seen it. I felt . . .vindicated, even though I’d never heard the word.
“Hand me the BB gun,” said Pop Wilder.
I did.
Pop shot one BB into the bear, smoothly worked the lever like a cowboy in the Old West, and then shot another BB into the bear.
The bear was motionless. It must be dead! Pop Wilder killed it! Pop handed the BB gun back to me.
He then walked back into the deep snow directly to the bear, reached out, and pulled up the black plastic sheeting that had blown into a ball up against the fence.
He handed me back the BB gun and handed my brother the black plastic sheet. We walked home in silence.
So, there was that: the Miracle of the Transubstantiation of the Bear – where a Christmas miracle transmuted a black bear into a sheet of black plastic. Not sure of any other explanation.
But the real Christmas miracle, it’s below. Merry Christmas to all.
John – – A wonderful story that delights your readers annually.
The “moral” of the story: “We often see what we want things to be, which is not always how/what they are….”
Indeed! It was Christmas Eve, so I thought I’d give my family the attention instead. We had a wonderful time.
Hahahahaha! This is better than Patrick McManus!
Thank you, that’s high praise, indeed! I’m not allowed to read him in bed because I laugh loud enough to keep The Mrs. awake . . .
“My brother (really) is also named John Wilder”
Do you have another sibling so you can do that bit from the Bob Newhart show?
https://youtu.be/3xj_jeviwKQ?t=25
He really has the same first and last names as I do. The middle names are unique (to us). I do have other siblings, but haven’t met them. My family tree has been through a blender.
Love it John. My first one my Dad tortured me by not putting it wrapped and delivered at the normal opening. No he put it in my bed under the blankets knowing I would not be able to sleep that night allowing him to sleep in the next day.
I still laugh today because even years later he would be walking across the guacamole colored shag carpet barefoot and stop and say, “Ope I found another BB”. No tellin how many I must have spilled and could not find.
We just did not know how good we had it. We lived on a cul de sac with a creek in the back yard and a park on the other side. Roamed great distances up and down that creek with my daisy.
Oh and Merry Christmas to you and yours. My focus I try to maintain on the reason for the season and it is the best in history.
Oh, my! I spilled so many into our guacacarpet AND our rustcarpet. Deep shag. Mother was NOT amused when she found them.
I hope your Christmas was wonderful.
“Pop Wilder killed it!”
No bears out here on Coosaw Island. If there were, they’d be Bad News. Deer, yes. 10 pumps on my trusty plastic camo stock Daisy®, and BAM!!!
Love to see them bolt when you hit ’em in the rump. No eye shot to date but maybe…soon. Sweetie Pie is looking forward to that.
Ha! Ma Wilder did give Pa a look when he took the BB gun. Note: Pa Wilder had more weapons than a typical brigade, but was unarmed that morning. He wasn’t snowed from moment one.
Thanks John Wilder for a heart-warming Christmas story! Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to all!
I hope your Christmas was merry, and hope that 2022 is far better than 2021 . . .
When I was a tot, all Christmas presents were opened only on Christmas Day, but as I grew only a few years older, we began visiting relatives on Christmas Eve and often that was to be Christmas with them, so everyone would open those gifts then. This is not going to be a Christmas miracle story. I don’t have one of those. But of course you’d have to know who I was then and still to this day, a bit of that remains within. After watching Franz Klammer doing his infamous downhill run in the Olympics in Austria, I absolutely had to have a pair of snow skis. Even though my parents divorced when I was about six years old, this particular topic must have prompted a serious discussion between the two. Because trust me; I tried both parents in order to get those skis. It’s obvious they knew certain death was imminent if I had them and that’s likely true or at best, I’d have wound up like Babbling Joe. As an adult of closing in on senior citizenry, I have long since adhered to a strict policy of no event is celebrated prior to tradition. Not one gift is to be opened before whatever the event. Seriously I don’t celebrate a single thing prior to when it’s meant to be. I did finally get snow skis and only skis about 5 years ago from my wife. Way too old, both me and the skis. I’m circa 1960s and the skis circa 1930s. No poles, no boots, bindings as they are, well worn. Every year still, I tell my wife I want skis to which she replies I already got you a wonderful set of skis. God has an evil sense of humor. Funny thing is; over my life, in particular the last years before I retired, I made really good money that I spent on things both important and not and could have easily bought myself a killer setup (no pun intended, or not) but passed. Now where I’m living this area does get snow usually every year and there’s a three or four mile trail intended for walks or biking. But there’s a massive project, mostly still in the fundraising phase to develop this short trail into a 30+ mile trail. And, during winter they plan to groom it for cross-country skiing. Wouldn’t ya know. I don’t know if I can even get in shape to get in shape for such a thing now. But it will become awfully tempting. Of course this area also has mountain lions, so it would be more of a biathlon where I’d have to sling my AR across my back even if I could ski a few miles. It would be my own hell to finally survive skiing to be eaten by a mountain lion. That’s it. Merry Christmas everyone.
Oh, I think you could. I did cross-country skiing for several years – great exercise in winter, and when you’re a mile from anyone in the snow, it’s wonderful. I would suggest lessons if it’s your first time . . . there’s a lot to learn.
Merry Christmas to all the Wilder’s and the commentators here.
Oh if only you had seen a snake on that fateful day, you could have picked it up and used it for a walking stick.
And to you! There is the story about the spear and the snake, but that’s probably for another time . . .
Sir,
I, too, received a Model 1894 Daisy BB gun as my first weapon, and I, too, still have it (through one thing and another I need a new rear stock for it, but have found a source for one. It’s on the list…). My father was kind enough to obtain one for me, even though he and my mother had their reservations.
I also had one of those Taiwan-made Rambo knives with a ‘compass’ on the handle. My AO was equally Russkie-free.
Your story brought back many memories of how good we had it, growing up in the middle of nowhere, with acres of woods and interesting terrain to explore and build forts in, wildlife to observe, and the opportunity to learn to map.
Thank you for the reminiscence.
A very Merry Christmas to you & yours, bundled up in stately Wilder manor…
As far as New Years’ wishes… well, those shall have to come later, once I’ve had a gander at the situation. No guarantees.
Best regards,
-M-
I hope your Christmas was wonderful! Indeed – I expected 2021 to be better than 2020, but, here we are . . . .
John, this story completely resonates with me. It is a shock that any of us survived childhood, what with the amount of freedom and extreme lack of safety gear we had.
Happiest of Christmases!
And to you! I hope you had (are having) a wonderful time!
Merry Christmas John and to your wife and family. It has been a pleasure and an honor!
Likewise! I hope your Christmas was wonderful!
I too have a BB gun story, though nowhere near as special as the one Scurvy shared above. I also got my BB gun at Christmas, with a little online research I now recognize it as a Daisy Model 102 Cub.
https://pictures.gunauction.com/7452193141/ACF3E4F.jpg
It had its own little slot beside my father’s shotguns in one corner of the dual door glass window gun rack built into the wall beside our little gas fireplace, back when guns were displayed behind glass instead of locked up in safes. We had a BIG white oak tree in out back yard, complete with a swing on its lowest limb and numerous squirrel nests scattered around in its branches. When I got tired of shooting at old tin cans I would fire up into the squirrel nests to flush them out and chase them around the branches with pellets. It was all great fun.
That spring I saw a brown wood thrush singing on a branch of that tree. A puff of air and down it came. I ran down the bank to pick it up out of the old brown oak leaves and held it proudly. I remember its head was flopped down at an angle and there was a tiny pink hole in its neck. And it wasn’t singing anymore.
That’s when I first understood what guns were truly about.
Here’s hoping for the miracle of a peaceful New Year, and a Merry Christmas to all of you here.
It will be hard for anyone to top Scurvy’s story!
Yup – I remember the same the first time I shot a .22 into a piece of wood.
Merry Christmas to you, John, your family, and all Christians who may read this. Please know there are many conservative nonbelievers like me who wish you nothing but the best and respect your belief even though we don’t share it. Have a great Holy Day and may your God bless your time with family and friends.
Thank you so much! Yup, I understand and respect 100% where you’re at. I hope your Christmas was wonderful, too, and that your new year includes zero porcupines . . .
Merry Christmas to you and yours, John.
And to you! I finished your novel, Crosses and Doublecrosses last week. An enjoyable read!
“It looked very real. Mine was the one on the bottom.”
So was mine. Do you remember the weird noise it made when it fired? I think it was the plastic stock vibrating.
If you do, now we’re both laughing.
It did. Kind of like a plastic “honk” – sound right to you>
Well, you can bag a bear, so why not bear a bag?…
And it was a bare bag that I bore. Actually, my brother John carried it back. I had my BB gun.
YES!