What Would the Holidays Be without Firearms?

Ahhh, Thanksgiving Day has passed and the stampede on Wal-mart has passed for the moment. It is time to sit back and enjoy the essence of a Southern Christmas. Living in the bastion for the Second Amendment, firearms and the holidays have always been woven together around here.

For example, the Saturday after Thanksgiving is opening day for duck season. It's a wonderful tradition to be awoken at the lovely hour of 3:00 am as husband and son try to "quietly" gather all their equipment for a day of duck hunting. "Dad, did you get the Beanie Weanies?" and "Where did you put my socks? I laid them right here!" whispered sotto voice are common in Southern households everywhere. Once the dynamic duo are out the door and sleep mercifully returns, the annual recreation of the Battle of Chickamauga launches out on the river with shotguns blasting away at unsuspecting waterfowl. Said unsuspecting waterfowl get wise after losing a few of their comrades and decide to fly to other places less dangerous (like the wildlife refuge a half-mile away), leaving the ghosts of the Confederate Army (now dressed in camo and bright orange) to pretend they see a duck and just shoot to be making noise. The windows of the house rattle and the dogs hide under the bed all day. Yes, it's Christmas-time!

Another good example arose around here this past weekend after football games were over and turkey eaten. As I'm struggling to get the Christmas tree up and the decorations out, dearest son decides he's going to rid the household of that pesky varmint the skunk, affectionately known by me and our dog Buster as The Devil Incarnate after our little dustup a few weeks ago. Son has a complex plan of action. First of all, reconnaissance is required to determine just where the creature is sheltered using the highly developed olfactory sense. In other words, dear son went around the yard sniffing. He narrowed it down to several potential locations, with the two prime spots being the ivy covering the wellhead and the culvert under the road at the bottom of the orchard.

The next step of the battle plan is armament. Son spends some time on expedition inside his closet and emerges with his camo, paintball helmet, 20-gauge shotgun and 12-gauge shotgun. Pockets bulging with shells, he declares he's ready but explosives are needed. What's a good skunk hunt without being able to blow something up, right?

Son pulls the last remnants of his Fourth of July firecrackers from the box under his bed and is heard mumbling "Man, I wish I had some M-80s..." as he rummages through the junk drawer looking for the lighter. The Plan (note the capitalization because now we have form to this endeavor) is to flush the skunk out with the firecrackers and then shoot him with one of the two shotguns as he goes running across the yard. Bottle rockets were considered but rejected because of their unpredictability and proximity to firearms. In other words, mom (being me) said "no".

As dad and I stand at the back door - inside of course - watching the last male member of the family line stomp around the back yard looking like a skinny Rambo, we decided there was the potential here for side-splitting humor. We started wagering on which gun he was going to drop first in his flight from the skunk and which tree he'd run into during his getaway. There was no doubt in our minds that the skunk was going to come out on top if his Tora Bora cave was exposed.

Alas, the depth charges did not serve to flush out Mr. Stinky and son had to return to the house defeated and dejected, having used up all his explosives. However, the shotguns are handy and ready at the backdoor just in case the opportunity arises for battle. You can never be too well-armed, you know. The Battle of the Backyard shall continue another day.

And finally, it just wouldn't be a Southern Christmas without all the flyers arriving in the mail from Cabela's and Bass Pro advertising the latest and greatest in deer rifles, scopes, and intruder-deterrent pistolry. With Sharpies and ads in hand, the males of the species retreat to the "reading rooms" to make out their Christmas lists by circling the weapons of their dreams while taking care of other business. Man, if only I had some M-80s....