It’s Christmas Day. 1953. I’m 6 years old, due to become 7 in 2 weeks. I know what Santa brought me. I just know it! I grab for the big box (the one with the red ribbon) and there it is – a cowboy hat, a holster and a cap gun. I’m so excited! Santa brought me what I really wanted.

It’s now the next day. I get dressed. I put on my cowboy hat and strap on my holster. I put the caps in the gun. I’m ready to go. I walk outside. I head next door to my father’s garage. I see the Atlantic Richfield oil truck there. The man is placing a hose into a filler pipe. I see the man walk back to his truck and I head over to the filler pipe. “Oh, look” I say to myself. “There’s enough room in the pipe to put the barrel of my gun.” I place the barrel of the gun in the filler pipe and pull the trigger. Whoosh! Fire comes out of the pipe. It scorches my face and eye brows.

I head for the woods and I climb a tree. I stay in the tree for a few hours. “I’m never coming down from this tree! Never!” I don’t come down even when people come looking for me. I only come down when I am reassured that I didn’t burn my father’s garage down. I only come down when I am assured that I’m not going to get my little 6 year old butt kicked. Then, I come down.

I walk into the house. I take my gun out of the holster and I remove the caps. I put the gun and the holster in my closet. I never use it again. I then turn my attention to my Lionel train set.