I wanted to be a cowboy so my father purchased me a bee-bee gun. I held each of the ammunition pellets in my hands, while marveling the symmetry of the maple wood stock and red handle.

Popping every last one of my marbles at our old oak, the tree grew of the appearance of a chopping block of pellet cavities, and the brown laden lawn became my ranch. My ambition wasn’t accepted by the mothers since they believed their boys to be of civilized nature. When I welded my Hasbro equalizer in my palms and dressed in the manner of a patron of the Wild West, children were forbidden to stand near me.

My companion was decommissioned soon after, caused by parental discretion as well as a fad now begotten. Black and white shows of the outlaws quickly vanished from the heads of individuals wanting to be their own private ranger; we now sought to be moon runners of the cosmos.