I mean, ya know... we never did learn our lessons. Dad (aka Santa) went ahead and got me the Johnny Commander Mk 12 just a couple years after the cannon treaty was signed (Details of the resolution provided that Dad would toss the cannon into the trash, and we’d the shut the hell up). The Johnny Commander was a wicked plastic assembly that could fire 7 different projectiles; bullets, a grenade launcher, a smoke bomb, and could be modified to launch real life imitation atomic bombs.
You could do anything with this baby. What did Dad think we were gonna do with it?
The tree, people, the dog, china, antiques, the TV and a few other items had been listed as “no-fire” targets; Dad had worked hard to try to provide for a safe cease fire zone in the house.
Soon as he turned his back, my brother and I both knew the star atop the tree was neither part of the negotiation, nor safe.
Mom had said that she liked the star even tho it looked funky and everyone in the neighborhood knew Dad could build real airplanes, but didn’t have a clue about Christmas decorations. He had worked hard for maybe 3 or 4 nights down in the shop designing and hammering out the delicate creation destined for the top of our tree.
It needed to go down.
The center of the star featured a bright yellow old fashioned light glowing in the surrounding mess of aluminum. I laid the sights of the Johnny Commander dead on the bulb and then launched a piercing rocket though the bulb.
Sparks flew, some brightly, while a few others sorta dripped down onto the dry pine needles.
If the fire would have started from below, the tree might have been fully engulfed in 30 seconds or so, but because it started high and worked its way down, Dad had just enough time to dive under it, grab it by the stand, and pull it in full flames and smoke out into the yard.
The next round of peace talks included a proviso banning any more devices that could send any projectiles through the air.
It took awhile for that agreement to be reached... Dad spent the best part of that Christmas in the emergency room hoping someone, anyone, would put a cast on the ankle he broke when he flew off the icy front steps.
My Dad was a great guy for letting us live. He was also a dumbass for giving us bottle rockets a few years later; what the hell was he thinking.