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 And I could use a hose on those punks to gettem offa my lawn!

Ayup.  We weren't stupid then.  We have cable news now.  Coincidence?

Ayup. We weren't collectively stupid then. We have cable news now. Coincidence?  No, I don't want to turn back the clock to 1964, except selectively.  I'm not interested in reviving Jim Crow, etc.  I'd like a re-do on the "War on Poverty" and "War on Drugs," though, if anyone's asking.


 Good times in some respects. I had that toy Thompson, one in black, one in camouflage. I had way cool parents.

Oh yeah, well my parents let me have a lever-action cork gun which when you ran out of corks could be muzzle loaded by sticking it into various consistencies of dirt.  Loved that gun.  My Big Sister not so much.

And, at the risk of over-staying my welcome, here's one from the "How My Twig Was Bent" file.

Even though I grew up in the Bronx in the afterglow of WWII, I was always more inclined to the cowboy ways. I had the twin Fanner Fiftys cap pistol rig which was, unfortunately, one of the banes of my dear mother’s existence.

One summer’s day, she took me and my sister to the movies, double-features in those days. The second movie was “The Charge at Feather River”, not only an oat-burner, but a 3-D oat-burner. I was allowed to wear my rig but was warned against bringing any caps. In one of the very few failures of my mother’s eternal vigilance program, she forgot the body cavity search and I managed to secret two full rolls on my person. During the intermission, I went off to the lavatory and loaded up.

The highlight of the movie for me was the, you guessed it, “The Charge at Feather River”. The besieged cowpokes and cavalry were attacked by the ferocious, in those days, pre-Native Americans. In unison, they loosed their arrows and spears which, through the miracle of 3-D, seemed to come pouring out of the screen directly at me. What’s a boy-cowboy to do but to shoot up some caps to protect his mother, sister, and self. However, before I could get off even a handful of shots, my mother had re-established her normal level of control of both my property and my person.

Later that evening, my mother came into my room with that twinkle in her eye that meant “Your father wants to talk to you in the living room.” Denotations aside, the obvious connotation was that parental supervision had been kicked up a notch to the ultimate level. When I arrived in the living room, my father was involved with his evening beer, cigarette, and newspaper. I sat down as quietly as possible on the couch. My father lowered his broadsheet and gave me his sternest look. He then began his pre-waterboarding days interrogation.

“So,” my father began, “your mother took you to the movies this afternoon.” “She did,” I replied as my father’s look told me that that was all the answer required. “And, she let you take your six-guns.” Again, only the “She did.” “But, she told you no caps.” Once more, the “She did,” as the in-terror-gation proceeded along its course. “And, you took some anyway.” A quick switch to an “I did.” “And, you shot them off in the theater.” Again, an “I did” followed by a failed attempt to begin a litany of excuses for my actions.

“So,” my father began as he took a Lucky Strike pause, “How many Injuns d’ya kill?”
That's a good story, Sarge - no matter how many times you tell it...!
Greetings, John of:

Well, I'm afraid that I have no firm purpose of amendment in that regard. I'll be a long time dead before that story stops tickling me. 
I said it was a good story, that bears repeating.  Just like I recycle "Duck" now and then.  Because it's just a good story (your's is actually much better).

I had one of those Thompson squirt guns also, back in maybe 1958 or 59 at the early elementary school age.  We lived behind a schoolyard in which there was a playground, a forest of trees and a couple of drinking fountains.  It was the neighborhood version of a paintball range.  On summer nights there would sometimes be 20 or more kids of varying ages up to teenagers in many-vs-many engagements.  My Thompson let me shoot a lot longer than the kids with just pistols so I'd hang out by the water fountains and catch those coming back for a fillup.  Of course, eventually I ran out of water and then it was a sprint back to the safety of our back yard to fill up at a leisurely pace.  

Good times...   a few years later we moved to another state where I fell into an even more badder bad influence - playing Army!!!!  With a toy rifle!!! and a helmet!!! and pistol!!! and ... and.... a mess kit and canteen!!!   Probably why I wound up in Navy aviation a dozen years later.

George V.   
Fond memories indeed.  I had the drum fed model without the shoulder stock. 
 I never had onea them Tommy Guns. My father always us under armed. I guess he thought it might build character or something.
11B40, I like that story. Feel free to recall it, when appropriate.  Just like John's duck story. :)