I wasn’t there when my father shot Rudolph the RedNosed Reindeer Christmas Eve more than 50 years ago, but I’ve heard about it over the years, including this one.
Don’t worry, kids: Rudolph survived. In fact he wasn’t shot at all. It was just an ill-advised practical joke that I suspect the perpetrator regretted after the fact.
The incident was revisited by our group of eight surviving Dunagin cousins at our annual Christmas gathering earlier this month.
There were 10 of us — two have passed on in recent years — born during the Depression, World War II and in the post-war years.
I’m the third oldest, and my cousin Joel Dunagin of Hattiesburg is the youngest, about 20 years younger to be exact. He sometimes jokingly calls me his uncle.
The Dunagin cousins’ parents consisted of one sister and five brothers — all of whom are long deceased. We’re the older generation now.
Our family has always been close — getting together at our grandparents’ home on Christmas, when they were alive, and later at some other family member’s place.
The night in question took place at my parents’ home when Joel was still young enough to believe in Santa Claus.
Needless to say he was wired. My dad and his brothers were all great kidders — Joel’s father probably being the most serious one of the group. That night my Dad was teasing Joel about whether Santa would visit him.
Dad suddenly shouted: “Do you hear that? Something’s on my roof!”
Then he grabbed a shotgun — they lived in the country — ran outside and fired into the air.
He came back in the house, announcing that reindeer were on top of the house, damaging the roof, and he shot and killed one with a red nose.
There probably aren’t going to be any presents from Santa Claus this year, he told Joel, whereupon the child burst out crying.
As I said, I wasn’t at the party that year. I lived in Jackson at the time and was either working or at my wife’s folks.
But it’s one of those stories that have gone down in family lore, as inappropriate as it may be. I don’t suggest anyone trying it tonight.
Joel got over the trauma — just as I did the time one of my uncles, who was a highway patrolman, frightened the wits out of me. I was around the same age as Joel, still believing in Santa Claus, and had been warned to stay out of the road. I was walking to a nearby friend’s house when my uncle drove up behind me and engaged the siren. My first thought was I was going to jail.
Joel, as the youngest cousin, was really the pet of the family. But he’s right in noting that we all had to get over intimidation pretty early in life.
Christmas, of course, is a time for joy, especially when you reflect on the real reason for the season — the virgin birth of Jesus Christ.
But it’s hard for me not to get nostalgic in reflecting on past Christmases and those with whom I used to share the holiday.
