8 Weeks of Memories- Part One

Just Call Me “Snoopy”

“A fool worketh mischief as it were for sport:

But wisdom is prudence to a man”

Proverbs 10:23

Part of growing up is admitting you’re wrong, and owning up to past misdeeds. We all have skeletons, of course, and I’m no exception. My father will be the first to tell you I was a bit of a kleptomaniac growing up. I occasionally stole from stores we would visit as a family, and I remember once after stealing a pack of gum from TSS while I was with the Faxon family, dad confronting me in my bedroom upstairs with the pack of gum Mr. Faxon told him he would find in my jacket pocket. He was pissed to say the least, and I was embarrassed and ashamed. I was caught red-handed. It was a shitty feeling, indeed, but I would steal again.

As my thirties wind down, and I watch my children grow into the beautiful young adults they’re becoming, I feel such love and honor for them, and I would shield them from any harm at all, but even now, years after I’ve stolen anything, I know I would be quite disappointed if either of them followed that most unnecessary trait I once endowed.

I must, however, share one story of thievery, with an amusing ending. Looking back on it now, considering the party involved is now aware of the theft, and laughed with me about it, I feel I can say it was no big deal.

In 1988, I traveled by train to Colorado with Mom and Jason to attend Maryann’s funeral. It was a somber journey, as Dad was already out there, and her death was a shock to us all. I loved Maryann very much and most remember about her the ear to ear smile she displayed whenever she spoke, and the calm, loving demeanor that she exuded. I was fifteen, and having gone through grandpa’s death 2 years earlier only made it more saddening.

At some point during the stay at Maryann’s house, I found myself downstairs in Rebecca’s room alone, as she left for a few minutes upstairs. I remember tie-dye decorations and a huge stack of either beer or soda cans on one shelf, and other various accoutrements. In one corner was a small jewelry chest, and me being the snoop I was, went straight for the bottom drawer. Neatly lined from left to right, as if placed as provisions after a nuclear holocaust, was nine or ten pre-rolled joints. I had never smoked weed before, but I knew exactly what they were. I don’t recall being shocked or upset, only curious and impatient. Without haste I grabbed one and put it into my cigarette pack and quickly closed the drawer. It was deliberate. I don’t know what my immediate thoughts were right after taking it, only that now I was in possession of one marijuana cigarette.

I went back upstairs before anyone came down and the rest of the stay, funeral not withstanding, was uneventful. Without a flinch, after the funeral was over and we were leaving, by plane now, I successfully smuggled that joint on board an aircraft and made it all the way home to NY, through the airport, and to the house without so much as an eyebrow raised. As a matter of fact, it was a few days before I realized I still had it, and then I devised a stupid plan to smoke it. I guess my ultimate goal was just experimentation. I was fifteen, and some of my friends had smoked before, so I guess this was my opportunity to “be like them”.

One day, in the finished basement TV room of the Ridge house, I found myself again alone watching TV. I think I was in the same chair that grandpa was sitting in in the famous photo of him leaning back, with his arms locked to the back of his head, smiling, providing a warm seat for our dog, Candy. I took out the joint, and carelessly lit it, and in true Bill Clinton like fashion, finished that joint without holding in the smoke, meaning I was smoking it like a Marlboro.

The very nature of most joints, I believe is the smaller size, compared to conventional cigarettes, and perhaps that is why it smoked down quickly. There was indeed a cloud in the basement, but nothing that would scream “pot-head-lives-here”. Now the really amusing part. Mom came down about a half hour after I “smoked” my first joint. She asked why it was so smoky down here, and I responded without hesitation, “I think it’s the oil burner”.

She believed me. I’m sure in the day or so that followed, she had Dad “check” the oil burner, of course to no dismay. I was never questioned about it again.

Recently, in NY for Greg and Debra’s wedding, I finally had the opportunity, and more appropriately, the “cojones” to finally tell Rebecca the Joint story. After telling her the condensed version of what you just read, she and I laughed. By the way: that joint was the last thing I ever stole.