The humble plastic pig. A staple of farm kids everywhere. Your toy farm is not complete without a few plastic animals to eat the imaginary crop that you have raised in the living room. So humble and yet deadly. Ask my cousins about a particularly interesting Christmas Eve at Grandma and Grandpa's back in the early eighties.
Every year we gathered at the farm for a fun, family Christmas in the best Clark Griswald tradition. As we arrived in the snow to my grandparents house the lights would be twinkling on the tree, Grandma would have the chili and oyster soup simmering and an uncle would be guarding the door to the desert room to keep us out of the cookies. The cousins would gather in the front spare bedroom to play.
The pinnacle of the evening is always the arrival of Santa Claus and the opening of presents but as little kids we had to suffer through the long wait of supper, clean up, and Uncle Ray suiting up and to bring Santa to life (The adults were always surprised when Santa made it to the door). Surviving the anticipation on Christmas Eve was always the Christmas miracle.
Imagine nine or so children from ages ten to two crammed in a room that was maybe 12x15 if we were being generous. This was the Hicks kids fiefdom, dominated by an old cattle show box that was filled with old hand me down farm toys. Not just any toys but the best kind of toys for boys. Steel trucks, Ertl diecast tractors, and a whole bunch of plastic animals stuffed the old show box to the rim. We would arrive and tear into the box dragging out every toy possible and begin building a farm. (At this point I will mention that I have no idea where the girls were. I am sure they were having fun somewhere.)
Very few arguments erupted as we each began farming our various Christmas crops. We would work at this for an hour or so as each cousin arrived until dinner was served. After our parents wrestled us to the table and most of us ate our meal of crackers and cheese (What 8 ten year old would eat oyster soup?) We would shuck off our Christmas sweaters (We didn't realize they were ugly back then.) and get down to some serious carpet farming. It would only be a few minutes after supper while our parents were tearing down the kiddie table that the farming would fall apart.
I always blamed it on Grandpa turning the house into a sub tropical paradise complete with the fire in the fireplace. Our parents would be walking around opening doors and windows as Grandpa guarded the thermostat from his chair. It may be snowing but the kids would be sweating in the hot box of the back bedroom. Then the pigs would start to fly!
Those little rubber pigs and cows would start zinging back and forth. Ducking behind the bed and the toy box we would start a snowball fight with rubber animals. With unbridled glee we teamed up and started chucking. Scrambling from cover for ammunition you dreaded the sting that would come from the rubber long horn bull when those horns smacked you in the ribs. We would laugh and giggle, screaming "I got you" every time we hit someone from the other team.
Magically, the parents would only appear every ten minutes to yell at us to be quiet. The room would smell like a gym and all of us would be sweating and breathing hard. This was the true fun of Christmas throwing hard plastic animals at our cousins until someone got hurt. We pierced an ear with a pigs foot one time!
When the blood started to flow our parents would corral us in the living room. Smearing our dirty faces on Grandma's picture window we would look for and listen for the old brass bells that signaled the arrival of Santa Claus.
Those days are gone now and our families have each begun to create our own traditions. The magic of that old play room will live on in our hearts as we show our children how to have some fun that doesn't involve pigs flying. Merry Christmas Hicks family and friends enjoy the oyster soup!
Every year we gathered at the farm for a fun, family Christmas in the best Clark Griswald tradition. As we arrived in the snow to my grandparents house the lights would be twinkling on the tree, Grandma would have the chili and oyster soup simmering and an uncle would be guarding the door to the desert room to keep us out of the cookies. The cousins would gather in the front spare bedroom to play.
The pinnacle of the evening is always the arrival of Santa Claus and the opening of presents but as little kids we had to suffer through the long wait of supper, clean up, and Uncle Ray suiting up and to bring Santa to life (The adults were always surprised when Santa made it to the door). Surviving the anticipation on Christmas Eve was always the Christmas miracle.
Imagine nine or so children from ages ten to two crammed in a room that was maybe 12x15 if we were being generous. This was the Hicks kids fiefdom, dominated by an old cattle show box that was filled with old hand me down farm toys. Not just any toys but the best kind of toys for boys. Steel trucks, Ertl diecast tractors, and a whole bunch of plastic animals stuffed the old show box to the rim. We would arrive and tear into the box dragging out every toy possible and begin building a farm. (At this point I will mention that I have no idea where the girls were. I am sure they were having fun somewhere.)
Very few arguments erupted as we each began farming our various Christmas crops. We would work at this for an hour or so as each cousin arrived until dinner was served. After our parents wrestled us to the table and most of us ate our meal of crackers and cheese (What 8 ten year old would eat oyster soup?) We would shuck off our Christmas sweaters (We didn't realize they were ugly back then.) and get down to some serious carpet farming. It would only be a few minutes after supper while our parents were tearing down the kiddie table that the farming would fall apart.
I always blamed it on Grandpa turning the house into a sub tropical paradise complete with the fire in the fireplace. Our parents would be walking around opening doors and windows as Grandpa guarded the thermostat from his chair. It may be snowing but the kids would be sweating in the hot box of the back bedroom. Then the pigs would start to fly!
Those little rubber pigs and cows would start zinging back and forth. Ducking behind the bed and the toy box we would start a snowball fight with rubber animals. With unbridled glee we teamed up and started chucking. Scrambling from cover for ammunition you dreaded the sting that would come from the rubber long horn bull when those horns smacked you in the ribs. We would laugh and giggle, screaming "I got you" every time we hit someone from the other team.
Magically, the parents would only appear every ten minutes to yell at us to be quiet. The room would smell like a gym and all of us would be sweating and breathing hard. This was the true fun of Christmas throwing hard plastic animals at our cousins until someone got hurt. We pierced an ear with a pigs foot one time!
When the blood started to flow our parents would corral us in the living room. Smearing our dirty faces on Grandma's picture window we would look for and listen for the old brass bells that signaled the arrival of Santa Claus.
Those days are gone now and our families have each begun to create our own traditions. The magic of that old play room will live on in our hearts as we show our children how to have some fun that doesn't involve pigs flying. Merry Christmas Hicks family and friends enjoy the oyster soup!