I tried to name the most unforgettable Christmas ever at the McDonald house when I was a kid; realistically, I could not pick a clear winner.  Instead, I have narrowed my list down to the final four.  I plan to present them in a series of five postings ( posting # 1 is an introduction and each of the final four most memorable Christmases past appear in its own posting).  The true story below is posting # 4 in a series of five and a continuation of the stories of series # 1, series # 2, and series #3.  I encourage each of you to share your memories with all your old friends and readers of Joel's website at joel@rockinghamremembered.com about what "a Wonderful Life" Christmas was "growing up in Rockingham, North Carolina - a small textile town in the South in the ' 50s & ' 60s."

 

 

 

Every country boy that ever grew up in the South has owned a gun.  NorthCarolina has more variety of wildlife to stalk than anywhere in the wide world of hunting.  Unlike a city squirrel in my backyard, a wild squirrel can camouflage himself in the top of a pine tree for hours without moving.  Yet when you catch a glimpse of his tail blowing in the wind, the thrill of victory is yours as he tumbles to the ground from your life ending gun blast.  Nothing gets the heart pumping like hearing a rabbit running in the swamps just ahead of the dogs knowing that you will get your one opportunity to kill him in just a few minutes.  Then again, your adrenalin really flows as your spotlight searches the treetops for that 'coon. Burning his behind with just enough pellets makes that old raccoon leap down amongst a pack of dogs and then they get it on.  This scene is sheer fun, fun, fun!

 

 In the fall of the year, every male large enough to hold a shotgun and climb up a deer stand hunts Bambi.  In fact, most deer hunters either call in sick or just quit their job rather than miss the opening day of deer season.  Special dates and reserves are set aside to hunt with dogs and to hunt without dogs.  Even special dates are set aside to hunt just bucks (the male species), to hunt just does (the female species), or to hunt both.  Likewise, the same parameters are set to hunt not only with shotguns but with rifles, to hunt not only with the most modern firearms on the market but also with the most primitive firearms (muzzle loading rifles).  In addition, deer hunters even have seasons and ranges that they hunt just like the Indians did with just a  bow and arrow.  Deer hunters are so fanatical that they spend hundreds of dollars to buy camouflage clothing to hide while state laws mandate that they wear red caps to aid them from shooting each other.  Furthermore, deer hunters spend thirty-five thousand dollars to buy a four wheel drive truck that they scratch up and stick in the mud up to the axles. If you still think that this ritual is fun, you ain't heard nothin' yet.  These fools will get up in the middle of the night in order to be in a tree stand before daylight freezing their tails off with the thermometer down in the teens.  You still think deer hunting in fun?  Well listen to this clincher.  A deer hunter may hunt all season and never get the opportunity to fire the first shot and at season's end cannot wait for opening day of the next season.  Black bear is the only wildlife animal I never want to hunt.  Likewise, I also would add the wild boar to that list.  I will never track an animal that outweighs me by five hundred pounds and can run faster and climb higher than me; also, I will never hunt an animal whose skull is so hard and whose skin is so tough that a shotgun blast would only make him mad.  On the other hand, the ultimate small game of the Old North State that I have never hunted and would love to have stuffed and mounted strutting his colors in my living room is the wild turkey gobbler.  Yes, hunting is an inalienable right guaranteed to a North Carolina born, North Carolina bred male by the United States Constitution.  To be out in the middle of the swamps and woodlands of the Sandhills of North Carolina with the sole intent of killing a wild animal to either stuff or be stuffed with (eat) for a Richmond county male is classified as "the pursuit of happiness". December 25, 1959, was the best Christmas ever in the eleven years and 356 days of my young life!  On that day, when I awoke page number 237 of the Sears & Roebuck Catalog came to life under our Christmas tree.  The pleas that I had made and all the letters I had sent over the years to the North Pole had finally been answered.  "Yes Virginia," Santa Claus had left a genuine Daisy Air Rifle for me and my little brother, Ken.  I had worked my game plan to perfection.  I had hid my disappointment of no Daisy Air Rifle gift the previous Christmas and pledged to be better sooner before Christmas ` 59.  Ken, Gary, and I concentrated on being extra good the day after Thanksgiving.  Maybe I had not been quite "nice" enough to get a Daisy Air Rifle.  My new plan was to start about thirty days earlier.  I promised myself just as soon as Halloween was over, I would make an extra effort to be extra nice.  I really thought I had been good enough the previous Christmas but I guess that is why Santa checks his list twice.  Anyway, my plan was successful.  I now had a Daisy Air Rifle!  Most of my friends already had a shotgun.  Ken and I could not eat Christmas breakfast quickly nough.  We were ready to go kill.  That Christmas songbird choir in our backyard would soon be singing one member short.  Daddy slowed us down long enough to give us a gun safety lecture.  We had been away from the breakfast table for about thirty minutes when Ken decided to shot a bird perched in the front lawn shrubbery.  He missed the bird and hit the living room window.  As a result, Daddy confiscated Ken's Daisy and my Daisy.  Daddy's reasoning was Ken had committed the crime and since I was the oldest I should have prevented Ken from doing the crime.  Maybe Father does know best.  Eventually, Ken and I did get shotguns.  When? I cannot remember,  but I do remember the Christmas of ' 59 when Ken shot the living room window out with a Daisy BB Gun; yeah, those precious childhood memories of growing up in Rockingham, North Carolina - a small textile town in the South in the ' 50s & ' 60s.

 

to be continued ...