It was the best of times: it was the worst of times. I was barely 10 years old when my parents granted me permission to purchase my first (and, ultimately, my last) firearm. What would it be? A 45 colt revolver, a 22 long bore riffle, or an M9A1 "Bazooka" that could be broken into two halves for easier carrying and includes a trigger magneto? Oh, my spine tingled with electricity only coming from those events you remember for a lifetime. Occasions like getting your tongue stuck to the jungle gym on a cold December morning or being caught by your fifth-grade teacher with the largest cache in the school's history of contraband candy hidden in your desk.

Astonishingly enough, my folks had something else in mind: a Daisy air-powered BB gun. Hey, it was a start to my arsenal, how could I complain? Through the catalogs I raced - searching for the most diabolical weapon (of those that shot BBs) my limited funds could buy. Then my Mom, always the frugal Norwegian, spied one on sale at the local Gambles hardware store.

I hopped on my bike and away I went. There it was in the window - the "spittin image" of the great model 94 Winchester with "lever-matic" action, 40 shot capacity, and automatic feed. I was drooling on the sidewalk and rushed inside - relieving myself of my hard earned money. Almost $12 in small crumpled currency and assorted coinage. Across the counter slid my dream come true. I envisioned myself belly-crawling across the backyard - sneaking up on unsuspecting soup cans - and blasting the heck out of them. Maybe even taking a shot at a moving car hubcap or two. Dangerous thoughts full of excitement and possible jail time.

Reaching home, I raced into our backyard, quickly setting up cans in the pre-designated shooting gallery (the covert operations would have to wait until dark). I took the shiny BBs from the special ammunition package and slid them down the automatic feed tube. Pow, pow, pow! Down went a can and, oh, the carnage. I was a natural marksman just like Daniel Boone.

I doubled my range - eyeing my tin cans from 10 feet. Pow, pow, pow! Another can bit the dust. Challenging my new found skills to the max, back I went to forty feet - almost needing binoculars to see the target. Pow, pow, pow! Say, what's up? All my BBs ended up in the dirt long before they got to the ill-fated can. This wasn't right. I had to point my sight way over the target in order for the BB to get to the can - sounding like I tapped it with a dull #2 pencil.

Disappointment met me head on. Surely there was some way to "super charge" the gun to hit targets at almost unlimited range. My mechanical left-brain took over and quickly scrutinized the gun's working components. Forgetting the gun was air-powered (always avoid the obvious), I noticed a spring under the main barrel that I figured, with increased tension, would propel those BBs out of sight. I carefully undid the end of the tube and ever so gently, pulled on the spring.

Much to my horror, the dang thing pulled right out of the tube without any intention of going back. Holly sproing, Batman, was I in a pickle. Only had the gun for 30 minutes and already yielded it inoperable. The ground was spinning below me and small tears formed in my eyes. This was the worst of times, almost.

Quick to regain my composure, I deduced that the spring must fasten inside the simulated-wood stock. I grabbed an assortment of tools from my Dad's workshop and proceeded to tear the stock apart. What else could I do?

Help! Cuddled in my carefully trained hands (I was a natural at tearing things apart) the stock was cracking into pieces. My folks would be home soon, so I quickly stuffed the spring, plastic simulated-wood stock pieces, and the rest (including the improved "lever-matic" mechanism) back into the box and put it into the crawl space under the stairs. Safe! Now to act nonchalant and let the whole thing blow over.

That evening I was standing along side my Dad - kind of one of those Norman Rockwell poses - contemplating what to do about all the darn starlings in the trees. Seems our town was in the migratory fly zone and there were starlings by the thousands pooping on everything.

My Dad said, "Joe (as he was want to call me), run inside and get that BB gun of yours and we'll blast the suckers out." Now, under any other circumstances, I would have thought that a grand idea but right now, it was a very bad mistake. I quickly went into evasive action which consisted primarily of lying. "Dad", said I, "I ran out of BBs this afternoon protecting the neighborhood from Tralfamadorian aliens that landed over in Mr. Apple's yard."

Sensing a mild untruth to my story (I must have averted my eyes), my Dad sent me downstairs to retrieve the weapon. When I got back outside, I handed him the box and quickly stepped back. I was fairly certain having free arms would speed my getaway should things go bad. Which they did. First came out the barrel with "lever-matic" thingy attached to a partly complete - mostly broken - simulated-wood grain stock. The rest of the stock, spring, screws and assorted other parts rested quietly in the bottom of the box and would prove of no benefit during my execution.

Never in my wildest imagination could I have envisioned a beating with a broken Daisy Winchester-replica BB gun. This one didn't even come with the usual, "This will hurt me more than it will you" disclaimer by my Dad. Standing there feeling the sting of a broken simulated wood grain stock on my calloused behind and glancing longingly at my abandoned shooting gallery - I remembered something I'd learned in Sunday school. Don't fix it if it ain't broke.