Oopsie Daisy
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WHEN I WAS A KID in Houston during the mid-50s good old Santa delivered a classic lineup of young-boy presents: a Lionel electric train set, then a Schwinn bicycle, then a Zebco Model 33 spincast reel and a fiberglass Shakespeare Wonderod.
On my eleventh Christmas I hit the jackpot, a Daisy Model 25 BB gun.
I was convinced the Model 25 with its long trombone pumping arm and spring-fed tubular 50-round magazine was superior to the Red Ryder carbine with its lever-cocking design. The Model 25 shot straighter and hit harder; if you centered a Coke bottle just right, the BB would break the green glass. The Red Ryder looked more “western,” but the projectile usually bounced off.
I loved that air gun and during the next several years ran umpty-thousand BBs through it while plinking in nearby vacant lots and along the wild and uncut banks of Brays Bayou.
The Model 25 finally wore out, but not before teaching me a lot about the elements of proper rifle shooting: sight alignment, breath control and trigger pressure. And the great majority of shots were taken while standing offhand, the most challenging position. The lack of noise and recoil were huge allies in fledgling marksmanship.
Frankly, I was a better offhand shooter back then than now. You can’t press a trigger that many times and not become reasonably skilled.
About 10 years later, at the Naval Officer Candidate School in Newport, RI, we were required to shoot rifles from the (easiest) prone position at a 100-yard center-fire range. We used the old M1 Garand, chambered in .30-06 Springfield.
We were stationed in a long firing line as the drill instructor paced back and forth. As I recall, each candidate shot two 8-round M1 clips. We banged away with peep sights and the large rectangular paper targets were retrieved.
The officer candidates were from all over the country, and shots were sprayed all over the targets. Some missed the entire paper.
Four or five of my shots were in the bull’s-eye and the remainder were punched in a fan several inches outside, nothing more than adequate with open sights, but all would have killed or seriously wounded a 100-yard combatant.
The DI eyed the target. “Where are you from, officer candidate?”
“Texas, sir!”
“Well, that explains it. Carry on.”
That was the first time I had fired a heavy center-fire rifle, and the mindset and muscle memory from the Model 25 laid the foundation.
Early on, as kids will do, I made some foolish mistakes but understood from the get-go the BB gun was not a toy. It was, in fact, a real gun. I took ownership seriously and tried not to carry it in an unsafe manner or aim it irresponsibly.
Several neighborhood boys owned BB guns, and we often prowled the bayou banks. Parents did not object. We were outside in the open spaces and enjoying clean exercise, not plotting trouble with zip guns in some dark alley.
Winter days especially were fun, more as we imagined real hunting. These were educational forays; for example, the quick splash of a BB near a distant floating object showed the significance of windage and elevation.
Incidentally, at the sight of a group of armed youths strolling along South MacGregor Way, no one called a SWAT team. For starters, no one knew what a SWAT team was. Times were different, a lot different, but many of the lessons on handling rifles remain the same.
Most were positive, a few negative. One was bad, seriously bad.
I was thirteen. My parents and I had returned from St. Paul’s Methodist Church and mom was frying Sunday chicken. I was outside, pegging away at a brush pile near the driveway. I was not wearing protective shooting glasses.
Mom called for lunch, and I decided to rapid-fire the remaining BBs into the mound of debris. I wailed away, blowing up dust and twigs, figuring 10 or 12 rounds remained in the tubular magazine.
About midway through the John Dillinger pumpfest a bronze blur ricocheted back. I can still see it, incoming and curving slightly. The BB struck my left eye. The physical blow dropped me to my knees and made me sick to my stomach. Within seconds the eye was hemorrhaging, and vision was lost behind a red film.
So much for Sunday fried chicken.
We rushed to nearby Texas Children’s Hospital and by great fortune coincided with a convention of ophthalmologists at the Houston Medical Center.
The BB struck the white cornea, not the blue iris, and failed to penetrate. Both eyes were taped shut to allow the trauma and swelling to relax. Apparently, blinking the good eye can put involuntary strain on the injured eye.
And I had to remain in the hospital bed for several days, a terrible confinement of darkness and demons and doubts for a 13-year-old kid. Or anybody. I learned that St. Paul’s Church was not the only place for heartfelt prayers.
When the doctor removed the gauze and patches the left eye was watery and blurry. Mom and dad standing bedside were vague silhouettes.
But after several minutes of swabbing and blinking, the images in the room snapped into sharp focus. I was a young 20/20 gunslinger again, and the wash of relief was overwhelming, one of the profound moments in my life.
Several years ago, suffering from a maudlin case of nostalgia, I bought another Daisy Model 25. It cost about $40, a huge bargain for the memories it delivers. I plink on paper now and then in the walled courtyard of my Houston townhome, good refresher training with cheap ammunition and no noise and no neighbors calling 911.
And you can take it to the nearest bank that I am wearing a pair of protective shooting glasses.
Email Joe Doggett at ContactUs@fishgame.com
