I myself had a annual tradition of shooting down my former scoutmaster Art Brown’s inflatable Santa each Christmas Eve — not that I had anything against Mr. Brown, mind you — he was a great guy — but I did like a challenge. The first year, my Sheridan pellet rifle did the job, but the next Christmas, when I shot it nothing happened, and I realized that the clever fellow had stuffed Santa with crumpled-up paper. Not to be denied, I returned home to Gilliam Lane, retrieved my bow and arrows from the closet, and went back and placed three arrows in Santa’s chest. They showed wonderfully.
I kept this up for a number of years and then gave it a rest, but one Christmas Eve, home from college and sitting around the fireplace with my mother, she asked, “isn’t it time for you to shoot Mr. Brown’s Santa?” “Mother”, I whined, “I’m twenty-one-years old; if I did that now, I’d be arrested, not just sent home for being a bad boy.” “But it’s a tradition,” she protested, “you have to do it.” So I sighed, got up from the sofa, picked up my weapon and went up the street and completed my task.
I quit after that year, but two decades later I was sitting on the Riverside Yacht Club deck when a stranger approached: “excuse me,” he asked, “but aren’t you Chris Fountain?” I know better than to admit to that kind of question, but I answered truthfully anyway, and he proceeded to introduce himself: “I’m Bill Howland, and when I bought Art Brown’s house last year, he told me that if I tied his Santa to the chimney at Christmas, Chris Fountain would come by and decorate it with arrows — but you haven’t done it.”
Until then, I’d had no idea Mr. Brown had known who the neighborhood nimrod was; the fact that he tolerated it and even found it amusing only increased my respect for the man.
So hooray for Texas; I’ll join the cowboys in their restraint, and have a merry Christmas anyway.