I had not forgotten about it. But hoping that no one else remembered. I am sure we all do things as teenagers that come back to haunt us. Relatively harmless activities that we do not think much about before we jump into them at the time. But when they come back to bite us on the butt, we realize that in the mindless misbehavior of adolescence and juvenility, we have all, as some point, done things I wish my kids did not know about. Before I make this confession any more public, I will now assume they also have been participants in activities I would prefer to not know about...
That horse is now out of the barn.
When I saw cousin Louisa back early in the year, we were in Macon, at the funeral of a dear man. My dad's cousin Edward, who was for me, Louisa and others the 'go-to' guy for family history. He was the one who knew the most about the most people, and now he's gone, taking much of that wealth of information with him. But he did talk to a tape recorder and share lots of stories and family memories.
There were several people who stood up at the service back in January and talked about Ed. and his well-lived life, his work in advertising and printing, his family and his influence in the community. There at the funeral were daughters, ex-wives, friends and lots of people from his circle of influence. One of the ex-wives, upon introduction to me, remembered the time I did a little B & E when her family was out of town.
So the story goes: I was attending a small two-year college in a little town about thirty minutes southeast of Macon. Such a small school in such a dull town, everyone who could would go leave on the weekends. Leaving on Friday afternoon, trickling back to campus on Sunday nights, with clean laundry. I had no transport, so at the mercy of anyone who would give me a ride anyplace that was elsewhere. Occasionally going with friends to Atlanta, or catching a ride back to south Georgia. Or finding someone who would drop me off at cousin Ed's house in Macon.
He had three daughters, acquired with a second wife. I think at the time, the girls were about eight and ten and twelve or so. It was a remarkabley pleasant household, a welcoming place with constant activity. Three daughters, assorted pets, friends, visitors, people coming and going, always interesting. One of the daughters was invariably away at a sleepover, making a empty bed for me to use.
I don't recall the specifics, but guess I usually called to ask if I could come up and spend the weekend. This could very well be where I perfected the art of 'self-inviting'. But apparently there came the odd weekend when I did not communicate my desire to show up on their doorstep. So when I had my ride put me out, I discovered there was no one at home. I don't recall the details, and can only guess how long I waited before concluding no was going to let me in. At some point I began to consider my options: no way to call anyone, no knowledge of the town to get out in the street and start walking, no idea when they might come back or if they were gone for the weekend. Awkward? Yes. Stupid? Maybe. Resourceful?
Had I ever been in anyone's house when no one else was there? Not that I remember. But I was stuck. Really stuck. Decades before the advent of walk-around-in-your-pocket telephones. So I climbed in the window. The way the former wife likes to tell the story, and the way Louisa started it was that I climbed up the chimney. But it was really just a window that was probably eight feet off the ground. The outside of the house was stone; lots of toeholds to work my way up and scootch over the windowsill when I propped the screen open and found the window was not locked. I think I got found out when I did not put all the knick-knacks back in the same place when I climbed in the window and over the chest/bookshelf inside the house. When the homeowners finally came home and noticed something askew. And the guilty party confessed.
I called someone from school, who lived there in Macon, and got myself rescued.
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