Steve Moseley

Christmas. Isn’t it such fun?

Well, mostly anyway. Not so much unbridled joy at age 73 than in the blush of youth certainly, yet still festive beyond the deeper religious meaning.

Family looms large at this time of year — those magic days from Thanksgiving through Christmas and ringing in the New Year. Painting the season with a broader brush reveals an overall atmosphere of generosity and affection for mankind. Does it seem to you this universal warm-fuzzy seemed more sincere before America leaped over the abyss into intolerance and political tribalism? Yeah, me too. That’s sad but in the end we get what we deserve, don’t we?

Perhaps that incendiary discussion is best deferred, the better to avoid sullying this treasured time of winter.

Back in the day — at least my day — Christmas was quite unlike the one I will experience this year, having by now achieved the card-carrying, used-up old poop age of 73.

In recent decades I have become increasingly sedentary at Christmas and, if forced to admit the truth, the rest of the year as well. Holiday sloth specifically in that while Good Wife Norma cleans and decorates and cooks for days, I perch upon these atrophied hind parts, tip the chair all the way back, pour a sip of the recipe and let Christmas come to me.

Our own kids, their kids, my 98-year-old mother, Christmas music and beloved seasonal movies are appreciated from the deep confines of this comfy, oversized recliner. It does not diminish the celebration, even when held up to the light of more energetic eras gone by. Truth is the pace seems just about right given the unfortunate passage of time.

And thus it is, with 80 summers clearly in view, the Santa flames have cooled.

My two younger brothers and I grew up charging out of our bedrooms to the tree every Christmas morning to discover what the Jolly Old Elf bestowed upon us. It was uncannily similar to that wonderful movie ‘A Christmas Story.’ My goodness, even the era was spot on. Mine was a stay-at-home mother, just like Ralphie’s mom. My dad drove faithfully off to work each day in our ’50s sedan to support us all.

The Santa period went on for years until the mysterious old fella brought me a truly manly implement, one literally loaded with lethal potential, which I would need if I was to stand tall beside Dad when he finally took me along as an armed, fully participating hunter.

I recall a single-shot, .410 shotgun that helped me get started wing shooting when a small army of uncles and cousins would gather for driven pheasant hunts at Thanksgiving and Christmas. The women had made the whole horde get together anyway, so why not? The .410 had the unnerving habit of falling apart when I pulled the trigger, plus it was borrowed which means Santa played no role which renders it unworthy of further comment.

The memory to which I refer was the simple-to-shoot, single-shot, .22 caliber rifle Santa left for me that one unforgettable Christmas.

You couldn’t shoot pheasants with it of course because it was a rifle, but over the ensuing years no squirrel or rabbit or bullfrog or tin can was safe in its presence.

I used it for years, firing one shot, reloading, firing another and repeating the process; kind of a miniature muzzle loader without the smoke and roar.

Eventually, young Steve accumulated wherewithal sufficient to purchase a new Remington Nylon 66 semi-automatic .22 at which point the faithful single-shot was enshrined in a closet corner. It was ignored for decades, moving from closet to closet as life, marriage, kids of our own and eventual retirement played out.

It’s not in the closet anymore.

A few years back I dug it out and cleared space on the garage work bench. Then in several sessions over a couple or three weeks, I coached young grandson Dominic (now a college freshman) to break it down, deep clean, treat and oil the metal components. He also refinished the wooden stock and fore-end, all by himself, with coat over coat over coat (six give or take) of classic Birchwood Casey Tru-Oil applied directly with his fingers. Gently he sanded down imperfections between every coat but the last … which he polished to a deep, spectacular sheen.

As the reborn firearm emerged, I recall Dom muttering almost to himself, sticky fingers dripping, “This is so neat!”

We went out in the country and test fired it. We adjusted the open sights to make it hit what you pointed at.

When our finished project was complete, I sent the rifle home with him … though not before delivering a lecture as sincere as it was short and sweet: “Don’t shoot your eye out!”