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Christmas, 1987 In 1987 I saw the movie "A Christmas Story" for the first time. Now I watch it every year. When I first saw it, I immediately recognized the fact that Ralphie was based on me. For those who don't know (I recently found out that there are actually people who don't know about him), Ralphie is the main character. All he wants for Christmas is "an official Red Rider 200 shot carbine action air rifle with a compass in the stock and this thing that tells time." He devises plans to get his mother to notice how much he wants it. He daydreams about the great things he could do if he had one. But everywhere he turns, adults keep telling him that he'll shoot his eye out if he has a BB gun. He heard it from his mother, his teacher, and Santa Claus. In the end, Ralphie gets his BB gun from his father on Christmas morning, and all becomes right with the world. The movie takes place around 1950. It's full of sights and people that remind me so much of Buffalo and my childhood that it's almost as if it was filmed in my neighborhood on 7th Street using the guys from my block as models for Ralphie's friends, and someone had secretly tape recorded all of our conversations. Even the ugly mismatched clothing they wore in the movie was authentic. Like Ralphie, I spent my entire childhood wanting a BB gun and/or a pocket knife. But my mother would never allow me to have them. I think that's why I can never walk past a knife or gun display without stopping to look, and I own about 15 pocket knives. I'm making up for a deprived childhood. Around the beginning of November 1987, Amy had started dropping clues that she really wanted an electronic keyboard/synthesizer for Christmas. I priced them, and a decent one cost about a hundred dollars. At the time I was only making ten dollars an hour, so a hundred dollars represented two full days work after taxes. Then the company I worked for notified me that they had screwed up their tax withholding and had not taken enough money out of my pay all year. As a result I was going to have to either come up with a pretty hefty check at tax time, or I could have them make up the shortfall out of my pay for the rest of the year, and I would be considerably short every payday. I decided to let them do that. Amy was there when I was on the phone with the company that day, and I explained to her that money was really tight until after Christmas, and she would not get the keyboard. She cringed, but seemed to take it well. Parents don't tell their kids everything about the household finances, and we were no exception. There was enough money for her keyboard, and I knew she would get it, but I was not about to let her know that. Every time I had a chance, I would tell her that it was too bad money was so tight, and it would be a tough Christmas. When I told her that, I could see her cringe just like Ralphie when someone would tell him that he'd shoot his eye out if he had a BB gun. I decided to give it to her "Ralphie Style." Every year Amy makes a fantasy list of things she would like for Christmas. Every year Mary Lou goes shopping and buys SOME of the things on the list. That year she sent me Christmas shopping for Amy's stuff, but she didn't tell me that I wasn't supposed to buy it all. So I bought Amy everything on her list that year. Christmas morning, 1987… There we were in the living room of our house in Palmdale, California. The sun rose on a world of white because it had snowed the day before. Who would have thought we'd see a White Christmas in Southern California? The carnage was over. The annual festival of gift giving and receiving left a pile of shredded wrappings, torn boxes, and Styrofoam packing that looked like little snow piles on the cinnamon carpet. Amy had gotten everything except the keyboard. I signaled the end of the ritual by announcing that I was going to make the Christmas Omelets, and who wanted to help? Mary Lou and Amy both said they'd help, so I started issuing orders for Amy to open the shades in the dining room and set the table while Mary Lou and I cooked. As Amy raised the shade, she found a long slender package behind it resting on the window sill, just like Ralphie. It had her name on it. She opened it, and there was her keyboard with a note taped to it that said "Don't shoot your eye out, kid!" I remember tears, laughter, and thanks. To this day Amy says that was the best gift she ever got, and I know it was the best I ever gave.Christmas 1989 We had moved back to Las Vegas from California, and our Christmas preparations had all gone normally. The house looked like Snoopy's doghouse, with lights all over it; there were Christmas cookies and fruit cakes; I had gone shopping and bought tons of gifts for Mary Lou and Amy. My pay was correct that year, and there was enough money for everything. On Christmas morning we exchanged our gifts, and I was getting ready to go make the Christmas Omelets when Mary Lou pointed and said that there was one more gift under the tree. I looked but didn't see anything. I turned and asked where it was. She pointed again, and said "Right there!" I looked again, and got down on my hands and knees, but still didn't see anything. I looked at her questioningly, and she pointed again. So I crawled to the back of the tree, and felt around. I found a small box tucked under the tree skirt. It had my name on it. It was about twelve by six inches, and felt a little heavy in my hands. My mind flashed to Ralphie, and when I opened it, I found a BB pistol. I was stunned. Here was the culmination of my childhood Christmas dreams. I was forty two years old, and felt like I was eight. All I could think of (like Ralphie) was going outside and trying it out. I remember someone saying "Don't shoot your eye out." as I headed out into the yard. I loaded my new treasure, then I grabbed a coke can to use as a target, and set it on the edge of the planter. Our house was on the corner of two pretty busy streets, and our back yard was on the corner facing out onto them. I walked about twenty feet away from the can, turned, aimed, and fired. The can didn't move. I heard the BB hit the concrete planter, then apparently flew over the fence. I heard a metallic sound as it hit a passing car. My first thought was "I shot someone's eye out!" I waited for the sound of squealing tires as the victim slammed on their brakes, and came charging with a REAL gun to avenge the transgression of a 42/8 year old. Nothing happened. I gradually realized that my BB gun and I were not going to Juvenile Court to face a judge and go to jail for shooting someone's eye out. I became a responsible adult, leaving the eight year old behind, and took the gun in the house. I told Mary Lou that was the best gift I ever got, and it remains so to this day, but I don't think I ever shot it again. There are times I go searching for it (I never seem to remember where I put it). When I find it, I aim down the barrel at some imagined bad guy and splatter his eye ball all over his face in my mind. Christmas 1990 Every year I buy my wife a piece of jewelry for Christmas. In 1990 it was a ring. Since she had been part of the keyboard scam on Amy, and pulled the BB gun scam on me, I decided to let her have it this time. Mary Lou works for Target stores (an appropriate company given the BB gun theme here.) The Christmas Season is the toughest time of year for people who work in retail. The closer you get to Christmas, the worse it gets. They have to put up with shoppers who waited until the last minute when the shelves are virtually empty, and become very rude to the store employees because they have so little to choose from. Shoppers also have a terrible habit of opening the stock on the shelves to examine the merchandise, then throw that package on the floor and take an unopened one. This happens over and over, and the employees have to clean up after each of them. People let their kids roam the store, and the employees have to become babysitters while they search for the parents. Cashiers ring up orders with scores of gifts, bag it all, and then the shopper's credit card is maxed out, so they have to void the whole order. Or the system will not accept a shopper's check because they've been writing bad checks all over town. It can become overwhelming at times. Christmas is the one day of the season retail employees can get a little rest. On the 26th the brutality begins anew as they man the return center, and are faced with some person screaming "What do you mean you don't have it in 4XL, this is a Small, and I can't wear it!!!" Thoughts like "I'm sorry Lard Butt, the idiot who bought it for you knew it didn't come in 4XL. What do you expect me to do about it?" must go through their minds as they force a smile and try to maintain their patience and their jobs by being polite. The Christmas Season of 1990 had been tough on Mary Lou. On Christmas morning she looked like "hammered shit" (thank you Drum Eatenson for that wonderful phrase in "Steel Magnolias.") Her butt was dragging as she came down the stairs, and all she wanted was a cup of coffee, and to sit down. Maybe a nap would have been in order. We exchanged gifts, and she got the last one. This usually signifies the best one. It was the largest one, also. She opened the box, and found newspaper packaging, then another box. She opened that and found another box. She opened that one, and found a note to go upstairs and look on the desk. When she got upstairs she found a note to go to the kitchen. In the kitchen there was a note that sent her back upstairs to one of the bedrooms, where she found a note sending her downstairs to the family room, then to the bathroom, and finally back to the living room to the bookcase right next to the Christmas tree. During this whole process she was moaning that all she wanted was to sit down and relax. At the bookcase she found a small package hidden behind a book. She opened it to find her ring and a note that said "Don't shoot your eye out!" I think I was forgiven, but she's never told me so. I know she laughs when she tells the story, so I must be. That ends the story of how Ralphie has affected our lives. I'm sure that Gene Sheppard had no idea what he was creating when he wrote the story, but I'm glad he did. NOTE: While these events were happening Debbie was living with my parents in Las Vegas, or had moved to her own apartment, and was not there on Christmas morning. |
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