Beware the Boomer Christmas

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Long, narrow boxes were always hidden somewhere.
Notice Pete in back?

I was born the day after Christmas, towards the end of a generation known as “baby boomers.” As a matter of fact, my Uncle Gary gave me the nickname Boomer when I was 4, and I never realized why he called me that until a few years ago. I figured it was a compliment because I was always shooting my .22 rifle up on my grandparents’ dairy farm.

Daredevil Childhood

Kids growing up in the late 60s and early 70s were blessed/cursed with unsupervised freedom like no other. If you were back before dark, no one would really worry about you. As a matter of fact, I think our parents preferred it that way. This provided you with a sense of independence, which led to confidence. It also let us participate in chancy activities such as jumping friends laying on their backs, side to side, on the sidewalk as we flew over makeshift ramps at top speed, Evil Knievel style.

Playing BB gun tag, digging tunnels, climbing trees or tossing lawn darts, which quickly turned into a game of how high we could throw the dart into the air, were other activities we participated in. It was particularly fun doing this at dusk when visibility was minimal. Playing tackle football always escalated into a “brawlish” game of kill the man with the ball. There were no teams or rules; just maul the guy brave enough to grab the ball.

Thinking back, maybe this is how I broke my collarbone four times, along with my wrist, and had more stitches sewn in me than two quilts. I almost shot my own eye out looking down the barrel of a spring-loaded dart gun. Not the brightest idea, but I was curious how it worked.

Mom later confessed she was scared of taking me to the emergency room all the time, thinking the staff was going to have her arrested for child abuse or, at the very least, child neglect. But the doctors and nurses knew better. That was how it was back then, with healthy boys. We were always looking for ways to beat the stuffing out of ourselves, either alone or in a group.

The Tortures of Christmas

Our parents (or was it, Santa?) played a role in all this mayhem by buying us diabolical crafts, games or other presents with the potential to burn, poke, cut, shoot, bite or blow us up in some capacity. Of course, that’s what made them fun and why we loved our parents.

There’s a direct correlation between self-inflicted pain, pain administered by a sibling and education. Pain reinforces the lesson like no other. Having hot plastic stuck to your skin teaches you to be careful. This happened daily while making Creepy Crawlers and watching the hot gel transform into a jiggly solid. It was a great precursor for casting bullets.

Now, if your sibling intentionally flings the napalm-like hot melted plastic your way, you’ve also learned something. Revenge is just around the corner. This teaches one stealth and tactical planning for carrying out covert missions.

Wood burning kits were another favorite burning device that taught you how to handle hot objects and, more importantly, how not to handle hot objects. The kits came with a plug-in soldiering iron device that accepted different heads with different patterns on them. The kit also supplied several laminated wood pictures that you branded with the appropriate tip.

The problem was, as the metal heats up, it expands, making the once tight tip fall off in your lap … or on your mom’s good sofa. In which case, the red-hot tip disappeared, burning its way through the sofa cushion like a nuclear meltdown. The only way of stopping the burning bit was reaching into the hole and grabbing it with your fingers. I remember falling asleep late one Christmas morning, holding an ice cube in my scorched fingers, hiding the freshly burned hole with my leg.

The Holy Grail

Coming out to the tree on Christmas morning was always exciting. Every blue-blooded kid wished they had X-ray vision to magically see what was inside the brightly decorative wrapped packages and know the order of which to open them. Underwear, socks, and other necessities would be opened last. No sense clogging up floor space with the less fun gifts.

Since X-ray vision wasn’t a reality, the next best thing was looking at the shapes of the wrapped boxes. The best-shaped boxes were the coveted long, narrow boxes with heft, for these boxes had the potential to hold a gun! It didn’t matter what type; it could be a BB, rifle or shotgun. Any of those would put a smile on your face.

This is brilliantly displayed in the movie A Christmas Story, where the main character, Ralphie, is dying for a Red Ryder BB gun. Sears’ Christmas catalog, The Wish Book, showed kids getting guns for Christmas, so it had to be okay, right? Dads always took delight in hiding these long boxes, trying to get the face of disappointment to bear itself in the despondent child, while moms usually looked on nervously.

Common places to hide these special gifts on Christmas morning included placing them under sofas, back closets, or even the front porch. But once found, a face of sheer enjoyment and anticipation would take over, as trembling hands unwrapped the cherished gift.

Back to School

When Christmas vacation was over, we returned to school looking like a rag-tag army unit after battle. It was easy to see how everyone’s Christmas was and the presents they received by the type of bandages, casts, eye patches and crutches they wore. Those were the days. No Game Boys for us. We wanted real fun, the kind you can tell your grandkids about, and they have a hard time believing. No one ever tells Game Boy stories.

Pete the Box

My wife is smart! She has wrapped so many gun boxes over the years she came up with the idea of keeping a “dummy” box wrapped year-round. We call the box Pete for short, as in repeat. She places Pete under the tree nearly every year, as I usually buy the gun months in advance. I tell her I can’t help being so efficient.

Merry Christmas to all, and I hope every tree has a long, narrow box, or perhaps a square box, with some heft to it, under the tree in your home this Christmas season.