Fox Collectors

Ahhhhhh, the memories of Xmas' long ago!!!

Was rummaging around the basement late last eve, searching for a set of tree lights that actually worked, when I found, buried in a dark corner an old, battle scarred .22 rifle. Not much to look at now but back on Xmas day in '72, she was the holy grail of fine arms to this 11 year old budding outdoorsman!!!

K-MART had come to town earlier that year, opening one of their large format super-stores just a few miles from home. Back in those days, they were the titan of retail and lucky for me, this store had an expansive sporting goods dept.----staffed by a few guys who actually knew something about hunting and fishing. So, while Mom was scouring the aisles for those infamous "BLUE-LIGHT" specials, my eyes were fixed on that "oiled,blued steel beauty", i.e., the Glenfield Mod. #10 (Marlin) bolt action, single-shot,.22 rifle, with the staggering price tag of $27.89.

Since Dad wasn't a shooter, all I had to do was convince Mom that I was ready to take this next crucial step in the evolution of a Roger's Ranger! Ascending Mt.Surabachi proved to be an easier task!! While she spared me the dreaded, "you'll shoot your eye out" retort, nevertheless, I knew this would be no cake walk.

Two factors however, weighed heavily in my favor. One, the safety record with my current weapon of choice, the coveted Daisy Red Ryder, was unblemished. No broken windows, paralyzed cats or pockmarked cars for this neighborhood renowned, exhibition shooter, who learned the invaluable lesson of "aim small, miss small" from spending hours on his belly, expertly picking- off yellow jackets as they lighted on dandelion petals. Two, no doubt the real trump card, was my older brother and mentor to me during those early days of the sporting life. He was a crack shot on his high school team ( back in the days when you carried your rifle to school with you----can you freakin' imagine!!) and later shot for The National Guard. He would be the "guardian" of this new fusil, so the folks would never have to worry about my safety.

Well, as you can guess, there was a long, rectangular box tucked under the tree that Christmas morning. I felt like Teddy Roosevelt when he unwrapped his F-grade from "Dear Mr. Fox." Cooler still, was that my Pop, always the carpenter/engineer , had constructed a 3-sided, citadel of timber out in the far corner of the garage, where legend has it, the last nail was driven well into the wee hours of Xmas morn. This would be my Camp Perry of sorts, where all those repetitive (now treasured) lessons of safety and marksmanship were drilled home. After our Xmas breakfast, my brother handed me a tiny, red & white box of Federal .22 shorts and we adjourned to the range for an hour of live-fire exercises!!! Ohhhh what a time.....what unbridled exhilaration......what a Christmas!!!!

Soooooo, how about you? Would love to hear of that one, very special Xmas gift that started it all........----TOOL

....off the glass

The only Christmas gift firearm I ever got was my first varmint rifle when I was almost 11, a Winchester Model 43 in .22 Hornet. About five years of using my Father's hot handloads, which were fine in his Winchester Model 54 .22 Hornet, and the little Model 43 was developing some excess headspace and it along with my Winchester Model 50 12-gauge got traded off on my first Ansley H. Fox shotgun.

My first hunts were with my best friend out side Wenatchee, Washington on the steep slopes of the Columbia River.
His dad would drive us to the top wheat fields unload the dogs and start hunting the shale rock slopes below the ridge.
After a half an hour or so he would hand single and whistle. My friend Tim would start up the scout and we would peel off to catch up to his dad . We were nine years old! Chuckar was the game and Tim's dad was one of the best hunters in the valley. We also were allowed to carry BB guns but I now know we were the flushers.
After the hunt Tim and I would share a coke and his dad would bust out a bud or two for himself .
On Christmas Day my 12 th year mom and dad gave me my first shotgun a 12 g model 870 from Sav Mart.
My Dad and I hunted together and I have a lot of good memories that started that Christmas.
I have started traditions with my own sons now. A BB gun on their 9th birthday a shotgun on their 12th .
Mike

Tool, thanks for starting this thread. I never got a gun for Christmas but did get a lemonwood long bow and arrow set one year. I was about 12 years old then and the bow came with big boost of responsibility from Mom and Dad. It would put a wooden field tip arrow through a 2 gallon steel oil can with ease.

Dad told me he hunted before the war but never did after he came home. But his guns were always there in the attic entryway. I wasn't allowed to gun hunt without being with an adult, usually on Saturdays with one of my uncles or a neighbor (16 year age solo restriction at that time). Dad had major surgery over Christmas when I was 15 and that was very scary even for this youngster who didn't understand life hardly at all. We visited him at a hospital in Phila that Christmas day. That was > 100 miles from home. Mom stayed there for the duration and I came home with an uncle. My grandmother was holding down the house. Small game season opened again on the day after Christmas, school was off, and this 15 year old went hunting with Dad's 12 gauge. It wasn't legal but I just stayed away from the roads where I might meet up with a game officer. I hunted almost every day of that school vacation and gave the game to neighbors. I was careful, kept the shotgun in the garage so Grandma wouldn't know I was out hunting alone or with my school buds. My uncles all worked and couldn't go out on weekdays. The next weekend I was at the hospital in Phila again and Dad was able to talk; he asked me how the hunting was going. The question just about floored me, how could he know? He never said a thing about me stretching the age thing; he just knew I'd be out with his shotgun and I wouldn't get in trouble. That Christmas long bow pushed me into being a responsible young adult. Silvers

I received a Daisy pump BB gun for Christmas when I was ten. It was the kind you only pumped once. There were no houses behind ours and you could hike and "hunt" anywhere your legs would carry you. There were enough sparrows to keep a kid interested. When I was twelve I was legal to hunt. I received a Mossburg bolt action twenty gauge with a two shot clip and a poly choke. It was effectively a single shot until I used it awhile. I once killed two chuckars on a single rise with two shells. My skills have since gone downhill.

I began going on dove shoots with Grandaddy at age 8 or 9, sitting near him with a J C Higgins Tenite stocked .410 S x S. I progressed to a 20 ga. M11 Remington at 11 or 12 yrs. old, but these were all loaners. I got my first real gun of my own for my 13th Christmas. I had wrecked a buddy's 350 Yamaha bike the day before Christmas Eve and broken my left wrist. My left arm being in a cast, and having 13 stitches across my chin, did not deter me from trying out my new Remington Nylon 12 on Christmas morn. (I had an unusually large amount of plastic stocked guns around me at an early age, eh?) That rifle was a squirrel's nightmare. I was a budding market hunter, selling squirrels and rabbits to neighbors, but Daddy made me pay for ammo I used to market hunt. He ran a big country store and sold ammunition. As I recall, .410 shells cost me 12 cents each, and I sold the squirrels for a quarter each. If I had to shoot one twice I only cleared a penny, so the new .22 caused my profit margins to burgeon, and increased my range! What great memories, all except the one about the ne'er-do-well that stole it (the .22) out of my pickup some 10 years later.

All my best, Stan