Rockland, Idaho. Christmas Eve. 1967

My grandfather was a hard working man of the land, who raised three daughters and a son on a small ranch in south eastern Idaho. He also had the luck, ( good or bad ) of raising me since my father was a bit lacking in child raising skills. It was great for me though, as I loved my grandparents and they loved me.

My grandfather was usually a very quiet, serious man who kept his fences tight and the stalls clean. He was as honest a man as I have ever known, tall, dark, with straight black hair. He always wore bib overalls when he worked and a short brimmed Stetson hat. He was not one to trifle with and yet he did have a mischievous side.

One Christmas Eve in the late sixties my aunts, uncles and a overwhelming number of cousins spent the night at the ranch. They had come from all over to gather on the old homestead. The ranch house was packed to the brim with kids from toddlers to teens invading my territory. I did not mind since this was the most excitement I had seen in my young life. Night fell, and we slowly wound down and drifted off to sleep. I was forced to share my room with some cousins. As I drifted off, I remember glancing out the window and seeing giant snow flakes drifting down and landing gently in the trees and on the ground. Santa would soon be here!

KABLAM!.. I came wide awake and was airborne. I was on the floor running before I even realised what had awoken me! BLAM! BLAM!. The walls and rafters of the house were shaking as a series of explosions rocked the home to it's foundation! Amid the screams and confused calls of my many cousins, I determined that the assault was taking place in the back yard. I raced up the stairs and out the back door into the frosty night air wearing nothing more then my Wild Wild West pajamas. Behind me my cousins poured outside, as well as my grandma and my aunts.

There standing in the winter moonlight was my grandpa. He was wearing a old plaid robe, snow boots and a fur cap, his legs covered only by his long johns. He was staring sky ward with a determined look on his face and his eyes squinting into the dark. But what shut up the gaggle of kids peering around me clutching each other was the artillery in Grandpas hand. Pointing skyward with smoke and / or steam rolling out of the barrel, was Grandpas giant 12 gage 1893 Winchester shotgun! "Wha..What is it PA?" I asked. I shot a dirty look at my younger cousin from Salt Lake who mumbled "Indians" under his breath. Stupid city kid, I thought to my self. "Well," Grandpa said as he continued to search the sky "I was coming back from checking on the new lambs when I spotted someone on the roof trying to break in." "Really !" I exclaimed and stood on my toes to try and see the top of the roof. " Yep, a fat fellow with a red coat, and a white beard." Well that was that. My dopey second cousin from Salt Lake let out a blood curdling scream. " He's Killed Santa Claus!" And all hell broke loose!. Kids were crying, yelling and hyperventilating! And that was nothing compared to my aunts who were really letting Grandpa have it. My Aunt B was saying something about," You did this to us 30 years ago and now you decide to torment our kids as well?" All the while my grandfather was still studying the sky as if at any minute a German Zeppelin might appear and drop bombs on the John Deere. I was in total awe of the confusion surounding me. Which was added to by the stock dogs who had begun howling in their kennel. The only beings not in a uproar were grandpa, my pet terrier Prince, who was laying on his back in the snow hoping someone in this mess will take the hint and scratch his belly, myself and Grandma who was just looking at Grandpa with a icy stare. I looked at Grandpa as well and that is when I saw it! The Twinkle! It was there in his dark eyes then gone just as quick! He was kidding, he had not killed, wounded, or even shot at Santa! Why he probably had not even seen him! So I joined in announcing loudly, "I think I see a blood trail!" This caused a marked increase in howling by both dogs and children, and a cuff upside my head from Aunt N. My aunts rounded up the herd of sobbing children and drug them back into the house. All the while explaining that Gramps was senile and to ignore him., They would prove it by producing the presents Santa Left before he peacefully departed.

A couple of hours later, we were playing with our toys amid mounds of torn wrapping paper, listening to Christmas music. I looked over at Grandpa watching it all happily from his big Lazy Boy, sipping his coffee. I realized what his motivation was. He just wanted to get the action started a little early. Who could blame him?