A Storied Man

My experience with shoplifting came when I was in 9th grade. After an 18-month stint living with my mother, I was glad to be back in my hometown, but it seemed different somehow. My lifelong friends had made new ones, and I didn’t like being treated as the new kid by those who had lived there only a year. My absence during the formation of cliques had brought me both happiness and despair. Through my parents’ divorce and my subsequent moves, my older brother was my only constant friend.

He and I formed a heavy metal band called Mace and Chain, with him on guitar and me on bass. He was two grades ahead of me, and few my age were interested in playing music on their own time. School band was fine for them, but otherwise music was passive. They didn’t realize that all rock stars were once kids. For the most part, they still are.

We practiced in a local church’s somewhat onorthodox sanctuary. I thought it unusual for church services to be held in a rented office space, but was glad we had use of its four walls and hanging tile ceiling. There we stood, playing Judas Priest and Ratt songs as we glanced around at the Bible verse posters. I was uncertain our souls would survive it, but I played on nonetheless.

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My advisor turned to a young boy of about nine years and said, “Now, Jimmy, when he starts goin’, you turn loose of that rope.”

I climbed a few rungs of the homemade ladder and reached high to grab the handle. This position would make anybody feel vulnerable, and I wasn’t exactly flashing my Coppertone tan. I took a deep breath and kicked off of the tree. I was gliding with my feet about six feet off the ground.

Just as I started building up a little speed, I slowed suddenly to a halt, swinging above the edge of the cliff.
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I gave her the finger, too. The “I need chewing time” finger. After finally rendering the potatoes lumpless, I swallowed. “I know, I know. I was just crunching through a bite of food. So, why, Dad?”

“Snakes.” The word slithered slowly from his mouth. I was no friend to poisonous reptiles, despite my slogging around snake-infested ponds at an early age.

I remembered the time my best buddy and I had walked around the edge of his farm pond lifting large, thin sections of Styrofoam. The mother snakes had built their nests there, and from under each piece a handful of tiny snakes would wriggle, leaving trails in the mud. During that moment of recall I realized why some city folks called country people stupid. I didn’t know for sure that uncovering snake nests was more dangerous than walking around New York City at night, but it certainly seemed dumber.
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People fall into two philosophical categories in life: stump finders and stump dodgers. You see, when it comes time for a group of kids to sled down a new hill, someone has to go first. When the snow is deep enough, you can’t see exactly what’s on that hill. The first one down usually has a few mishaps, possibly even smashing a finger or two as he makes his way to the bottom. A stinging faceful of snow also is common.

After one or two more kids meet a similar fate, down go the stump dodgers. They make their way as smooth and easy as if they’d made that run a hundred times. Stump dodging might not have been as exciting, but it usually was a lot less painful.

It was the middle of the summer, but it was a year ’round philosophy. I needed a stump finder, but I had the unique problem that day of staring at a big group of stump dodgers.

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