When I went to 6th grade (1955-56), Ike was president and the world seemed a very predictable place - the little bit of civil defense stuff and news of the bomb that made it to Eastern Kentucky seemed more like fun to us, than something to worry about. One of the friends I made that year in school was Robert B.. I first began to hear bits and pieces of what sounded more and more like either an attempt to rob Santa Claus or take him prisoner from Robert's younger brother, William. (That was William's spin on it.)
Bringing up the subject to Robert got a frosty reaction, then an angry reaction. Finally, he said that on the Christmas when William was 6 (which made Robert 8), he had decided to prove to William that there was no Santa Claus. So he devised a plan.
The plan began as a simple idea: On Christmas Eve, wait in the living room where stockings were hung on hand-made antique nails (truly!) driven into the fireplace (no fire!) mantel, with his trusty Kodak flash camera. Then when Santa (believed by Robert to be Mr. B.) arrived to fill the stockings, Robert would snap his photo, obtaining proof to shatter William's belief in Santa.
But a simple plan is never good enough. Robert decided to slightly rearrange the furniture so he could hide in a corner behind a couch. He also decided to sprinkle flour on the hearth in front of the mantel and on the polished stone floor so that if he missed Santa (he didn't know how long he would have to stay awake), he could track him!
Still so far, so good. But Robert admitted that he made one error. For whatever reason, he decided to have his Daisy pump-action BB gun with him. You can guess the rest. Robert dozed off. When Mr. B. arrived to fill the stockings, a startled Robert shot him in the stomach with the BB gun. Mr. B. was so surprised that he slipped in the flour and fell on the stone floor, cutting a gash in his head that necessitated a trip to the local hospital emergency room and stitches.
All well and good, except that I knew that Robert invented the "truth" on a regular basis. A couple of years later at the high school, waiting for the afternoon bell to ring (after lunch), I got up the nerve to ask Mrs. B. about the events of that Christmas Eve. The flour was true, the camera was there, Mr. B. did get shot by a BB gun, he did fall and cut his head, but --
She said that Robert was the last of his friends to believe in Santa and was trying to prove his existence. "But why the BB gun?" I asked. "You won't understand," she said, "but in his heart Robert is a combination of Zorro, Blackbeard, and Jesse James. " The bell rang and she seemed happy to get away from me.
I couldn't figure out how to raise the issue with Robert without giving away my source, so I never mentioned it again to him again.
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