BB Guns

By: Jerry Smith
Publisher: StClairCountyAl.com
Date: 3/21/2005

"No way! You'll shoot out your eye!" One of the most memorable lines in the movie A CHRISTMAS STORY, and quite prophetic in my case. The movie was practically a biography of my young life. We lived, talked, acted and thought very much like those characters. I can attest to the absolute authenticity of every part. My goal in life was the same as young Peter Billingsley's; I wanted a Daisy Red Ryder BB gun, and I finally got one.

Daddy gave it to me for my ninth Christmas. Mom gave both of us the evil eye for several days, with a look of dread on her face that would eventually come true. After a few days of target practice during which I also learned to dodge ricochets, I finally set out to "do me some real hunting".

It was bitter cold that morning as I slowly stalked within range of a flock of starlings who were scratching for food. Taking careful aim, I nailed one right through the breast. The bird gave a little hop and died almost instantly. I regretted the deed immediately as I watched its scattered downy feathers settling onto the snow and its blood oozing onto the frozen ground. Unknown to me, Mom had been observing this whole process through a kitchen window.

"Jerry, why would you want to something like that?", she asked. "That poor little bird was just trying to find something to eat so he wouldn't freeze to death, and you went and killed it."; like I wasn't feeling bad enough already. Being a man-child, though, I decided to take the only approach possible, and answered, "Well, the little bas---d should have flew south with the rest of them." Mom nearly went into shock, but Daddy saw nothing wrong except my use of a bad word, and so the matter was quickly excused. At least I had learned just how lethal my new rifle could be, and what it means to be at the top of the food chain. The starling received a decent burial next to Tom Cat Smith.

For a small kid like me, cocking the weapon was a real test of strength. The barrel had to be held upright so a BB could enter the firing chamber; then a single hard pull on the cocking lever set the trigger while compressing a strong spring which powered an air piston. There was no safety and, once cocked, the weapon was perfectly dangerous until fired. It could not be unloaded any other way. I once tried to shoot like a gangster with a Tommy gun, by opening the cocking lever and using it as a handle to hold the gun at my side. When I pulled the trigger, the cocking lever suddenly had all the power of the mainspring behind it and snapped into its normal locked position, nearly breaking several fingers of my right hand. I wondered why Red's sidekick, Little Beaver, didn't carry a Daisy, at least until I owned one. Then it became obvious; Beav was too little to cock the dang thing. By the way, does anyone recall who played Little Beaver? It was Robert Blake, who went on to become Baretta, eventually going on trial for murdering his wife. Some role model, eh?

Daisy's Red Ryder version was accurate and very powerful for a single-stroke gun. Fully capable of bringing down a bird or squirrel with one shot, it could propel a BB through both sides of a steel can. Or, one side of a car door (don't ask). Vaguely reminiscent of an 1873 Winchester carbine, the name Red Ryder was embossed into the stock in script that simulated a piece of rope. A leather thong was looped through a special ring on one side of the receiver so you could hang the rifle from your saddle horn while using your pistols for short-range work. In lieu of saddle horns and pistols, we used bike handlebars and squirt guns, but the principle was exactly the same. There was little difference in our minds between riding on horseback across the Rio Grande or riding an American Flyer across the Village Creek bridge.

A packet of fifty BBs cost a nickel, but a tube of 250 was about fifteen cents, so us neighborhood posse members usually opted to buy in bulk and share. They were loaded by pouring the shot slowly into a special opening, uncovered by twisting the barrel end. You had to cup your fingers around the hole to make a little funnel for the BBs or they would spill and roll all over the place. Naturally, no kid would be caught dead with a real funnel. The barrel reservoir held several hundred BBs, and they all rolled around noisily every time you raised or lowered the rifle, something to consider while stalking wildlife or a mortal enemy, but at least you always knew you had enough ammo.

A few years ago I spotted a modern knockoff version of the Red Ryder on a shelf at WalMart. The picture on the box looked exactly like my old one, and the $32.00 sale was quickly transacted. Upon opening the box at home and handling the weapon, I found a lot of authenticity, but a few changes as well. The stock and forearm are still made of wood, with Red Ryder's rope-script name boldly punched into the side of the shoulder piece. It looks like my old gun, but the leather saddle thong is way too short and doesn't even have a knot in the end, which means the current maker has no idea of its original purpose. The barrel insert can no longer be removed for cleaning, nor does it twist open for loading. There's a funky little plastic door on the side instead. A muzzle jam means you have to throw the gun away and buy a new one.

The trigger now has a safety, and the cocking lever operates in stages so it's much easier to use. Once cocked, the lever no longer connects with the mainspring, so no more smashed fingers nor the valuable experience that comes with such happenings. The old Daisys would be a liability nightmare in today's world, so these changes were mandatory. Also absent is its awesome power. The gun is wildly inaccurate, and can hardly penetrate one side of an aluminum can, but is still adequate for stinging cats who loiter around bird feeders. It's also adequate for stirring old memories.

Would I buy a Daisy for my younger grandsons? Good Lord, NO. They'd shoot out their eye.