Just Saying: Gifts that remain

From a kid’s perspective, it was the best Christmas in terms of sheer loot.

First off, I got a new high-end bicycle. Back then, in my neck of the woods (the Midwest), that was a red Schwinn “racer” model with a three-speed gear shift on the right handlebar. It was what all the cool guys had. 

It replaced a green mid-size Schwinn “Spitfire” model with a banged-up front fender, the remnant of a collision I had had with a parked car across the street about a year earlier.

During that episode, I had my head down and was pedaling as fast as humanly possible when I met the car’s rear bumper and was tossed airborne, clean over the roof and onto the car’s hood. A neighbor, Mr. Messmer, witnessed the whole thing and rushed over to check me out. I was unharmed.

Another memorable gift was a plastic model of a V-8 engine that I was to assemble. It was a very accurate depiction of an internal combustion engine, machines I had an unnatural interest in. This may have been attributable to my father’s cars, two Fords with, typical of the times, brawny V-8s.

When my parents were out, I would sneak out to the garage to fire up the bigger of the two, just to hear that baby purr.

(To this day, while I fully understand how a conventional internal combustion engine works, I can’t believe that the theory actually becomes reality. Pistons and camshaft and sparkplugs? Great concept, but surely unworkable at high RPMs. But the most amazing gift that Christmas was a rifle.)

My parents were Nebraska farm kids, and I’m sure my grandfather groomed my father in basic gun lore. But he didn’t become a hunter and never exposed my brother and me to any gun-related activities.

So the unveiling of the rifle, an exquisite Winchester .22 bolt action beauty, was astonishing. But the old man had another surprise up his sleeve, a gallery pellet trap. This was basically a heavy metal rectangular box with a square open hole on which to place a paper target, thus allowing we Bornemeier men to shoot special pulverizing bullets in the basement.

Unbeknownst to us, my father had prepared for the shooting escapade by hanging an inch-thick piece of plywood on the far basement wall where the trap would be mounted. He had affixed some foam rubber padding to the back of the plywood just in case an errant bullet missed the trap.

First up was my brother. Success, meaning the paper target was pierced. Then me. Success. Then my father.

The bullet missed the trap altogether, making a terrific bam! — the foam rubber pads thrusting the plywood into a savage recoil.

It was a sobering moment and as we inspected the plywood we discovered a five-inch chunk missing from the concrete basement wall.

Shooting abruptly ended and we intuitively made light of the stray bullet and recommenced our Christmas Day without further firearm commentary.

It was the last time we used the basement shooting gallery.

Over the years, I somehow came into possession of the Winchester. It’s squirrelled away in a closet on the Island and I encounter it every five years or so when I’m searching for some old photos.

I slide it out of its canvass sheath and marvel at its perfection as an object.

I’ve never used it, except once. I was writing a short story and one of my characters was threatening me with severe bodily harm. As I set up the scene, I lamented that the Winchester was out of reach upstairs and I looked around the kitchen for a weapon.

The only thing I could find was a hammer-like meat tenderizer and I stealthily slipped it into my back pocket.

Turned out I whacked him pretty good.