I was born in Dover, New Hampshire in the January of '37.   Father died when I was about 2.  Mother remarried and I was a adopted by her husband. When the war broke out we moved to West Virginia and lived at the foot of the White Oak Mountains for a

spell.  As we were in the woods, I was taught survival skills such avoiding snakes and finding my way out of the woods if lost, a skill that proved useful from

time to time.  Much to Mother's chagrin, I can never remember a time I didn't have a knife in my pocket. 

At  the age of six we moved to Worcester, Mass., where I grew up and left at the age of 18.Dad was a wanderer, not much of a provider and seldom home. Mom took in sewing and ironing and sold Avon. At the age of ten, I built a shoeshine box, proving

that cabinet making was not in my future. I would go downtown to the Greyhound station and shine shoes, 10 cents a pop. Eventually sold papers on street corners.  I'd take the money, minus a treat or two home to Mom. This is leading up to my first Red Ryder.

 

After the war, I was 8, Daisy would advertise the Red Ryder ($4.95) on the back of comic books. I wanted one so bad. You guessed it (all together now) You'll shoot your eye out.  Mom kept all the money, which was in change, in the china cabinet and I could have taken it if I wanted, but I wouldn't.  Anyway, in 1948, the gun appeared it a shop window that I passed

every day and my heart would pound. Out of the question said Mom.  Uncle Joe, who was the real uncle to most of my friends came to board with us. Joe was a remarkably skillful man, one of few who could repair Shoe sewing machines and was much in demand. However, he was an alcoholic, albeit a nice drunk. He'd go on a month long bender about once a year. On day he asked me to lend him 50 cents to buy some wine, he could have stolen it from the china cabinet. I told him Mom would kill me if I did. He said lend me the money and I'll get you the BB gun. Everyone has a price.  A month later, when he

drew a paycheck, he said ok, lets go. Where? To get your gun. I was surprised he remembered.  It came

in a plain white box, I guess Daisy hadn't got to the point of printing them yet. So must have been the first issue after the war. Mom got over it.  I virtually lived in the woods and carried that gun all the

time. It was never far from my bed at night. I was pretty good with it as my uncle and stepdad had taught my to handle a rifle at an early age.

 

My favorite story is when I became a legend.  My room was the attic with lots of room. I tied a

Christmas tree bulb in a doorway about 20 feet away and spent weeks trying to hit it.  One day a friend was lying prone on the bed shooting at the bulb

to no avail, I was sitting crosswise in an arm chair reading a book. I told my friend to cock the gun and hand it to me. I tucked the gun into the crook of

my arm, book in other hand, pointed in the general direction of the bulb, squeezed the trigger and blew the bulb to pieces. Without expression, I turn back

to the book as I held the gun out to my friend.  I was forever known as a guy not to mess with when I had a gun. Never hit another one. I wore the gun out,

broken rod.

 

Some years later I went to buy a new one, but they had plastic stocks and I hated plastic.