People steal for different reasons. They get a thrill, they need the money or object, or they just plain have a problem. With the help of my mother’s loving hand on my bare bottom, I learned at an early age not to steal. And it was done publicly.
“Back in the day” we all used to go to the local grocery or neighborhood store and “help” with shopping. We lovingly gave our input on what mom should buy. The advice was often ignored and the experience more than likely ended with a good smack on the bottom, or an unceremonious banishment to the backseat of the car for the duration of the exploration. This was because our loving suggestions often turned to whining and then to yelling.
The Grab-It-Here was the store of choice of our family in Hoopeston, Illinois back in the 1960s. It sat in the middle of the block along Market Street, on the west side of the street, just south of Penn Street, not far from the police station. The store has given way to the Save-a-Lot now, but it is still the same neighborhood grocery.
Mom always let me go along, I suppose, because Dad needed the break from my incessant talking. At one time, I fit in the basket in the cart. Grocery carts haven’t changed much in 53 years, but I would no longer fit. On this particular day, Mom decided to let me walk with her as long as I held on to the cart and kept my mouth shut. I knew I could do one of those things; I was not sure about the other.
As we walked down the aisles, I was content to try and get various items into the cart. I never said anything; I just dropped them in. After all, I was not saying anything, how had I broken the rules? Bologna, Vienna Sausages, and a can of beans all made their way surreptitiously into the basket as I walked along dutifully.
As we got to the end of the aisle near the cash registers, I spied the toy section. Until now, I had been the perfect son, helping in any way to get the shopping done. (As perfect as any three year old could be, that is.) The toy section called my name, but I knew that if I tried to leave Mom’s side, it would be the car for me. So I did something bold… I asked if I could go look. “Yes, but you are not getting anything, hear me?” Mom said sternly.
As I walked towards the toys, one in particular caught my eye. It was a balsa wood plane that could be fit together and then flown. According to the pictures on the package, it did all sorts of tricks once assembled! I knew I had to have it at all costs. I removed it from the shelf and took it to my mother, who promptly took it from me and returned it to the rack with an admonishment about asking for something. “But, it is only a quarter!” I began to whine. The look she gave me immediately told me I should be quiet.
I stewed about that plane for a while, and then came up with a plan. I would stick the plane down my pants leg and take it! No one would ever know. I told Mom that I would behave and she let me go back to the rack. I looked around and made sure that no one was watching and put the plane down my pants. I did not anticipate, however, that I was only about three feet tall, and the plane was longer in the package than I anticipated. I could not bend my leg without risking being discovered. So, I pretended to be Chester from the TV series Gunsmoke! A clever plan, indeed.
I told Mom that I would wait in the car since she was almost finished shopping, and went to the 1953 Chevy Impala just outside the front door. I had trouble climbing in the car because I could not bend my leg! I struggled into the backseat and sat across it.
When Mom came out, she told me to get into the front seat so she could put groceries in the back seat. Panic set in as I tried to scramble over the back of the front seat and into the passenger side. My leg would not bend. “Don, what is the problem with you?” she said with a wry smile on her face. “Is Chester having a little problem?” I knew she knew. Her MOMDAR had caught me. “Let’s go back into the store, son.”
We entered the store and stopped by the registers which were filled with customers waiting to check out. Mom called over the manager of the store, and told him that there was a problem. When he asked what, she said, “Pull down your pants, Don.” He began to protest, until he saw the plane halfway up my chest and down to my ankles. She turned to me, “Got anything to say to Max?”
I pulled the plane out, and apologized to Max, the store manager. Mom then bent over, grabbed me, pulled down the back of my underwear and proceeded to beat my bare butt red right there in the store in front of the customers!
I never stole again; for fear that my mom would come down out of heaven, pull down my pants, and beat me.
Lesson learned.
Doughnut
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