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I was brought up believing that if you help out or do something nice for somebody..just do it and shut up about it.

So, I’m sort of going against my raisin’ here by mentioning that Linda and I joined with other members of our church last week serving at The Banquet in Sioux Falls.

I only bring it up because the feeding ministry has a special need..which I’ll get to later.

I’ve done lots of stories on The Banquet for KELO over the years but this was the first time I’d ever actually taken part in the process of getting up close and personal with the people who go there to eat.

They were already lining up when we arrived..nearly an hour before  the doors officially opened at 6pm.

Unlike the old facility downtown, there is room at the new one at 8^th and Indiana for guests to come inside and out of the elements.

“Man, they must really be hungry or just have nothing else to do,” I said under my breath as we entered the back door to receive instructions, work assignments and a prayer.

“Please keep in mind that these people are our guests and to be treated with respect,” said Dan who, along with his wife, Lyndia are two of the unpaid Banquet staff members who regularly guide volunteers through their paces before each meal. “When it’s your turn to eat, go sit with some of the guests,” said Dan. “Don’t preach to them..just visit and “listen” to what they may have to say.”

I’d rather just work in the background..I thought. I’d be happy to do dishes. I have no idea what to say to these folks.

“Doug and Linda, we’ll have you serve beverages, okay?” Dan said. “We go through a lot of milk..so that’ll keep one of you busy.”  Linda grabbed the milk jug before I had a chance..leaving me with the task of pouring water and coffee which aren’t nearly as popular.

That left me ample time to stand there and observe the operation and appreciate the efficiency of it.

Then I saw a couple of the guests motion for me to come over..so I did, with water and coffee in hand. But they weren’t thirsty. “Doug, how’s retirement going?” one of them said. “We watched you on the news for years and miss seeing you.”  

I almost said “What are you doing here?” before it got through my thick head that The Banquet isn’t just for the homeless and destitute or those with various physical and mental challenges. It’s also a gathering place for folks who may be down on their luck or just plain lonely.

Who among us has not been there?

I’m afraid I stink as a beverage server but really did enjoy doing the very thing I’d been dreading; sitting down and talking with the guests.

Linda, on the other hand, was hopping all evening on the milk detail..which brings me to the point of this whole thing.

Milk is one of the Banquet food services biggest expenses and it recently lost the supplier that was providing it for free.

It just seems to me that a place that provides such a wonderful service should not have to worry about paying the milk bill and there may be somebody out in blogland able to alleviate that concern.

For information on who to contact and find out more about The Banquet  CLICK HERE to check out it’s web site and give ‘em a call.

By the way, I guess we were there on a pretty slow night; just under 300 guests served including about 30 kids. But like Dan says, winter’s coming and when the temperature goes down..the guest list goes up.

I hope they don’t run out of milk.

I’m sure a lot of you can appreciate how lucky I’ve been to have had Dave Dedrick as a friend for 35 plus years.

After all, I grew up with him on television too..both as a Kelo personality and, of course, as Captain 11.

Because of that, many people, who know that Dave has been in the hospital for several weeks now, have been asking me how he’s doing and what the heck is wrong.

Well, to the best of my knowledge, he went in to deal with back pain that has been excruciating for some time. In the course of treating that, other old health issues have cropped up to the point that he has been confined to bed.

My pal, Lyle Bamsey and I decided to defy the ban on visitors because of swine flu concerns and stopped by Avera Select to see the Captain this morning.

Laying flat on his back, he noticed us come in and, with a big smile and handshake, said “Doogle and Bammer..good to see you.”

The old fart is still sharp as they come and still able to intimidate me with his intellect and wit. For example, during a lull in the conversation, I said..”So, Dave, are you in much pain?”

Here’s a guy with a spine like a dry twig laying there with instructions posted all around his bedside for staff to be especially careful in moving him..and I ask a dumb question like that.

He just looked at Bammer and rolled his eyes, then laughed.

God, I love that man and hate it that his body can’t keep up with his brain any longer.

I frankly don’t know what his prognosis is but am sure of one thing..he needs your continued prayers or positive thoughts or whatever cosmic energy you call upon to make things better.

He loves the fact that so many of you have sent greetings over the Facebook web site called “Friends of Captain 11”  He gets regular updates from his wife, Marjean..son, Dana and daughter, Sunshine..so keep ‘em coming. There were over 5 thousand of you at last count. 

Oh, one other thing that is so typical of my friend.  He wanted to do something nice for the hospital staff so ..sick as he is..he ordered pizzas for everybody and was surprised when the appreciative crew said that’s the first time a patient had ever done anything like that.

Oh, Lord..the world needs this guy around awhile longer…a LOT longer.
Please?

It seems only fitting that Art Wollmann’s funeral be held on Veterans Day because he was not only a gallant World War II veteran but a hero in every sense of the word.

I am one who believes that the word “hero” has been applied a bit too freely in recent years diminishing its meaning.  But with Art, it is a truly deserved recognition..even though he, himself, never considered his actions on the field of battle in the Pacific Theater as anything heroic.

I did an Eye On Keloland story 8 years ago about Arthur Wollmann’s war experiences after he called and said it was time to get some of the things he’d kept bottled up inside out in the open. This was not for any personal glory..but a need to vent about the things he saw and did during 600 days of combat..including being wounded four times and single handedly killing 21 Japanese soldiers he encountered at the base of a hill.

I recounted his story a year ago on this blog..some of which I am repeating here as a Veterans Day tribute and because Arthur’s heart finally gave out last Saturday at the V.A. Hospital.

11-11-08

Art was my first wife’s uncle and totally different from any of my Norwegian relatives. He grew up, tough as nails, on a farm near Freeman where the whole family spoke German. He was never able to shake that thick accent which, to me, made Art sort of mysterious because he sounded just like those German soldiers depicted in movies and on television.

Anyway, Art never talked about what he did in World War II. All we knew is that injures he suffered prevented him from working on the farm and led to his long career at the V.A. Hospital lab.

When he called wondering if I’d be interested in hearing his story, I considered it a privilege and it’s an honor to share it again with you here.

Just click play.

Well, wadda ya know..there’s going to be a bit of Indian Summer after all.

My old colleague, Gary Weckwerth recently commented on Facebook about the political correctness of using that term to describe a burst of Autumn warmth..but nobody’s ever accused me of being too politically correct anyway so I’ll take my lumps if some take offense.

I finally got the yard work done Thursday. Once again the lawn was buried in shin-deep leaves, ours and the neighbors. It’s just killer back-breaking work getting them all raked up and hauled away.

At least that’s what the guys from Peter’s Landscaping said when I was writing out their check. No sir…there may be a recession going on and the government may have frozen our social security payments..but I’m done dealing with that chore forever and will gladly cut expenses somewhere else if need be in order to pay Peter and his all-Russian crew to come over with their riding lawn vacuums and other power equipment that lets them complete the task without even breaking a sweat.

They did it in less than two hours.

Last year, it took Linda and me 2 days..not to mention enduring the embarrassment of making several trips through town to the drop-off site in my old Lincoln..crammed with up to 16 bags of leaves.

Please don’t tell me how the exercise would do me good.

It won’t do me good. In fact, such violent interruptions to my sedentary lifestyle could easily have my body reaching for the heart\off switch and the next thing you know, Linda would be picking out plots for a long dirt nap.

I’ve always had an aversion to manual labor..even before I joined the world of the fat and fluffy.

That’s not to say I haven’t done it. I have. One of my summer jobs in high school was as a block tender for Gross Construction. For those who don’t know what that is..let me enlighten.

You get up at sunrise to face a day in the hot sun hauling concrete blocks..one in each hand.. carrying them over to the skilled mason who would cement them in place. As the wall got taller, the lifts became higher and my arms grew wearier.

“Getting’ a little heavy for ya, there Doug,” Clarence Mast would say with a Pall Mall in his lips and a smile on his face.

“Hard work never hurt anyone,” he’d say.

“Oh no?” “Tell that to the widows of the 112 guys who croaked building Hoover Dam.”  

I thought it but didn’t say it.

To this day I’ve never seen anybody who is jogging or lifting or stair-stepping or any other form of strenuous activity that seems remotely happy while doing it. Red faced, wincing in pain, gasping..yes. Smiling..no.  

Of course it’s possible that I’m just lazy…okay “probable.”

But it’s something I can live with.

I fully intended to post this blog on Monday but had to delay because of a phone call I received.

It was from Digger calling to say some of the boys were gathering at the Brandon Golf Course for, what could be our last chance to play this season. So, at 12:30, four of us teed off into a stiff north wind that caused my eyes to water and nearly miss the ball. At least that’s the excuse I’m using. Still, it was great to be out in the sunshine sharing shivers and laughs with friends who love this goofy game as much as I.  In fact, we’re going to try it again on Friday if the weather forecast doesn’t slip into ooops, sorry, mode.

Sadly, the week-long visit by our granddaughter, Zoey, came to an end Friday as we packed up her little suitcase, together with lots of extra stuff acquired from spoiling grandparents, then drove her back home to Lincoln, Nebraska in time for her 8^th birthday party on Saturday followed by Halloween trick or treating.

Just a side note here: If you are an impatient person and easily frustrated, DO NOT..REPEAT..DO NOT travel south on Interstate 29. I was pulling out great tufts of hair as we encountered one construction zone after another. It took a full half hour to get through Sioux City where work has been going on since Eisenhower was president.  Huge chunks of interstate between Sioux City and Omaha are still ripped up. Expect two lane traffic through the winter months and well beyond. I-80 between Omaha and Lincoln remains a sea of orange cones and barrels with speed limits varying between 75 and 50 a dozen times over the 46 miles.

I know, I know, these projects take time but it seems odd that a road crew guy can have a full career working along that same stretch of highway.

Eventually, though, we made it to Cornhusker City and Zoey’s parents were as excited to see her as we were sad to give her back.

Zoey was excited too because Saturday, 12 little girls were coming over to help celebrate her birthday with a dress-up party.

Her dad and grandpas were the only men allowed at this little soiree and each of us had job assignments.

Zoey, the birthday girl, is lower right in the pink hat.

Upon arrival, every little girl received a colorful hat and boa then proceeded to various stations around the house where they would have make-up applied,and get their nails done.(Linda’s job)

Then it was on to the game room where I was in charge of music beginning with a rousing rendition of “Little Sally Walker” in which the kids form a circle with one girl in the middle who skips, sings and dances; “Little sally walker walking down the street, didn’t know what to do so she jumped in front of me, singing hey girl do your thing, do your thing, hey girl do your thing, now switch”.

And, switch they did until everyone had a turn.

I admit to feeling a bit silly..this big old guy dressed in a Nebraska Cornhuskers sweatshirt..singing “hey girl do your thing”..but that’s what grandpa’s with assigned tasks do. Next up I was in charge of the CD player for a game of musical chairs only instead of chairs, the girls passed a purse filled with prizes around a circle. The one holding the purse when the music stopped got to fish around inside and grab a gift.  Unfortunately, I proved to be a lousy deejay because I lost track of which girls had not received a prize; an error that was realized after receiving an icy stare from a pair of big blue eyes about to fill with tears because the mean old guy running the music had passed her by.

Well, I made up for it on the next round and everybody seemed to be happy when they left my station to the one next door where they were making bookmarks.

From there it was on to the photography station where each little girl had her picture taken with the guest of honor to take home. Then  to the bakery station where the kids decorated cupcakes that I had made the night before (Yes, I did!) and everyone sat at their assigned seats..sang Happy Birthday and dug in to the cakes and ice cream.

Daughter, Suzan, makes sure every guest has a candle to blow out. 
That's Zoey's other grandpa, Paul in the background. His job was to dry the girls' painted fingernails with a hair dryer.

 
As I sat in the background watching Zoey open her birthday presents..squealing with delight at each one..I got to thinking about how blessed we are..both as a family and a country that we might experience such privilege and joy. 

It made me realize that life is too short to waste on being aggravated over things like road construction.

But, rather than run the risk of losing that warm/fuzzy feeling, I decided to skip the interstate and take old highway 77 home.

Yahoo, Nebraska is real pretty this time of year.

 
Just a couple hours after the birthday party it was time to change into Zoey's Halloween costume.
She decided a year ago to dress up as "Puss 'n Boots." The look was made complete thanks to some make-up expertly applied by her daddy.

I’m watching flocks of robins outside my window pane

Gobbling up sun dried berries and shivering  in the rain.

Their instinct says it’s time to leave as they fuel up for the trip

The branches swaying to and fro offering very little grip.

I love it when robins come each spring but hate it when they go

Their arrival means green grass and flowers, their departure foretells of snow

I wonder if they’re nervous about the arduous journey South

There’s an urgency about them as each berry finds each mouth.

The older birds will be out front, when to the skies they soar

Young ones wisely stay behind those who’ve been this way before.

I’d like to fly off with you, and leave all cares behind

To where it’s always summer, worms and berries easy finds.

But I’ll be right here waiting when you fly home once again

I’m the big guy in the window with a Kodak in his hand.

Well, it's that time of year again when, for some mysterious reason, we feel the need to dress up in frightening costumes like monsters, ghosts and witches or George W. Bush...then go around trying to scare the crap out of people. We decorate our homes to look like cemeteries..we take down old glory and run up a skull and crossbones flag in its place. 
It's all in the spirit of Halloween which was invented to coax out those hidden fears we all have.
One of my favorite movies is a comedy called “Defending your life” starring Albert Brooks. After his character is killed in a car accident, he ends up..with thousands of other new dead people..in a place called Judgment City where everyone is put on trial to assess their life and determine whether or not they move on to the next level in the universe. “The purpose of this whole thing,” says has lawyer Mr. Diamond (played by the wonderful Rip Torn) “is to get smarter and learn to overcome our fears.”

Poor Albert Brooks..it turns out..had not learned that lesson in several go-arounds on earth and was about to be sent back for another try.

I really identified with Brooks’ character because (I hate to admit it) I’ve been a fraidy cat all of my life..and I’m pretty sure I know when and where it started.

I was six years old in 1952 and begged to see “The day the earth stood still” showing at The Volga Auditorium Theater. My big brother and I always sat in the front row or as close to the screen as possible but this movie was nothing like Hans Christian Andersen or anything from Disney and had me wishing to be as far away from the screen as I could get. 

"The day the earth stood still"  not for a squeemish impressionable
six year old.
There was just something about that robot coming out of a flying saucer that scared the beejeebers out of me and then when the alien spaceman, played by Michael Rennie, warned earthlings to shape up or face destruction, I closed my eyes, plugged my ears and slid down in the seat. There wasn’t a monster in it but the psychological effect it had on me was unnerving.

Four years later, my friend, Dixon Hoberg, invited me along to see a movie called Rodan..playing at the theater in Brookings.  
It was a terribly made film from Japan about a flying monster. Terrible or not, I couldn’t get that creature out of my head resulting in several sleepless nights.

I vowed to never..ever..go to another horror film in my life. It’s a promise I’ve pretty much kept too.

For example, I’ve never seen “Aliens,” “The Exorcist” or any of the Halloween slasher-type movies. My kids even had to twist my arm to take them to “Jaws.”

When our granddaughter, Allison, wanted to see “Harry Potter” on her birthday, I had no idea it was going to be filled with all the elements that frightened me as a kid..but I got through it. After all, how could I hide my eyes, plug me ears and slump down in the seat with her sitting right there next to me?

This week, another granddaughter, Zoey, is staying with us. She just turned 8 and would like to see “Where the wild things are.”

“Is she up to seeing this?” I asked my daughter when I called ..hoping she’d say no so I wouldn’t have to go. “Oh yeah, she’s been asking about it and will be just fine."

We’ll find out this evening.
 

I have no doubt Zoey can handle it. I just hope the wild things don’t keep me awake all night.

Looking out my window has me struggling to describe the feelings these gloomy days conjure up. There are the usual ones, of course; dreary, dank, dark, glum, depressing, dismal, despairing, dejected, disappointing and melancholy.

But, I think what I feel most is ticked off.

My reasons are purely selfish.

My golf game was finally starting to come around. By the time I play again, I’ll have forgotten everything that brought about that improvement.

I was hoping that Linda and I would get one more chance to go for a long ride in the convertible before covering it up for winter.

The tan on my ample legs is starting to fade…..my….”WAIT A MINUTE LUND,” I can hear you saying, “you’re complaining because you can’t play golf or go riding in your fancy schmancy car?!.  “Get over yourself!” 

Think of the farmers stuck in the house drinking coffee..staring blankly out the window at a bumper crop in the field wondering why God hasn’t answered their prayers for the rain to stop long enough for them to bring-in  that bountiful harvest before it rots in a sea of mud.

Or how about Sioux Falls growing homeless population having to cuddle up on a cardboard mattress under a bridge somewhere?

You’re right. I shouldn’t complain. “This is the day the Lord has made, let us rejoice and be glad in it.”

Still, little pep-talk Bible verses and the fact that others have it tougher than you, are not always enough to erase this weather-induced moodiness.

I think I’ll take that ride anyway..maybe go talk to a frustrated farmer.

I’m gonna give our Pastor a call and tell him to go ahead and put Linda and me on that list to serve at The Banquet next month.

I have friends and family members who are hurting and might appreciate a visit.

Well, whadda ya know, that brilliant red cardinal just landed on our now leaf-less crabapple tree. He sure is beautiful silhouetted against the grey sky.

Starting to feel better already.

I sure wish my legs were not changing from golden bronze to pasty white so quickly, though.

Oh, a little postscript here.
The other day I received an e-mail with, what I thought was, a teriffic idea that just might give you peace of mind or even save your life.
Not everyone has a home alarm system but most everyone, these days, has a car with a set of keys on a fob containing buttons to lock or unlock the doors and trunk..plus one that makes the horn sound. Well, take those keys with you to bed at night. 
If you hear a noise outside your home or someone trying to get in your house, just press the panic button for your car.  The alarm will be set off, and the horn will continue to sound until either you turn it off or the car battery dies. 
If the burlar/rapist hears that he likely won't stick around. Plus, after a few seconds, all the neighbors will be looking out their windows to see who's out there and sure enough the criminal won't want that.
You're welcome.

“This could be the last nice day we have for awhile, I’m not going to waste it sitting in the house,” Linda announced as I poured my second cup of coffee and headed for the computer room. “I’ll be out in the back putting the deck furniture away and winterize the plants.”

That’s where I’m supposed to say, “wait for me, honey, I’ll get dressed and help.”

Instead, I said something like this: “Denny and I have a tee time at 1:20 and I’ve got a blog to write.”

“Yeah, that’s fine,” she said. But I could tell there were little icicles hanging on every syllable.

All in all, it was a pretty good weekend. On Friday afternoon, we met up with our friends, the Graves, and headed over to Worthing to play table shuffleboard at Boondocks. Four geezers getting all excited over that silly game and getting stares from the regular customers who wished we’d tone down the racket.

 This was followed by dinner at one of our favorite restaurants, the Brandon Steak House. My old friend, Bob Miller has been running that place for 30 years now and it is still the best quality and value around. Bob..who had vowed to go to jail rather than not allow his customers to smoke in the bar area..has, much to my surprise and I’m sure at the urging of his lovely wife, Marie, accepted the reality of the ban and won’t become a martyr.

Speaking of fantastic restaurants. We had a birthday party for Linda’s brother at Michaels..located just across from Elmwood Golf Course on Russell..and it is an exercise in dining perfection that only comes from years of experience in customer satisfaction.

Many of you may remember Michaels when it was located in Worthington. It was worth the hour drive to get there in order to savor the wonderful food and impeccable service.  Owner, Larry Lang, is a human dynamo who seems to fly around the dining areas, often with a pot of coffee in each hand, greeting and seating his guests.  Michaels also has the world’s best onion rings (I’d say “arguably” the best but if you tried them you’d agree.) which are served piled high in a huge basket..often at no charge if you have a coupon from the paper. I’m not supposed to eat them, of course, which makes the very mention of them cause me to drool on the keyboard.

Two of our grandsons enjoyed the sweet taste of victory on the fields of athletic competition over the weekend.

Michael was among 13 baseball players chosen to play an all star game against some of Iowa’s best in Sioux City. His team won both games.

And, Tucker helped keep West Central’s unbeaten record intact and exact a little revenge for last year as the Trojans beat Dell Rapids in high school football.

Speaking of football, the Minnesota Vikings proved once again that there is no such thing as a comfortable lead when they play. By games end, the living room floor was covered with chunks of grey and brown hair..pulled from my head while watching that game.

I also wasted four hours watching the much ballyhooed History Channel special, JFK 3 Shots That Changed America. It promised new insights into the Kennedy Assassination and the first part was indeed fascinating as they showed never before seen news coverage..including photos and film..from the time of Kennedy’s arrival in Texas..to the killing of Oswald by Jack Ruby. But then the special drifted back into the old conspiracy theory trap that has been scientifically debunked in recent years. One of the most convincing was an ABC special narrated by Peter Jennings shortly before his death. It’s an exhaustive study using the latest technology and concludes beyond most any reasonable person’s doubt, that Lee Harvey Oswald was the lone gunman and the Warren Commission was right. But the History Channel never mentioned all the new evidence..choosing instead to fuel the fires of conspiracy theorists again.

Anyway, that’s my weekend..and there’s the blog I told Linda I must write.

And, here she comes back into the house..her chores done. Funny..she doesn’t seem too angry.
A nice Autumn day will lift anyone’s mood.

“Honey, will you clean off my golf shoes.”

Just kiddin’.

I certainly hope the statute of limitations applies here because I’m about to confess to a crime from my youth that continues to haunt me more than any ghost or goblin ever could this time of year.

I’m pretty sure it was in the fall of 1959 because I had reached that awkward age of 13 which meant I was too old to go trick or treating. That was the first of many lessons I would learn in my lifetime that getting older wasn’t all that it was cracked up to be.  

Anyway, my farm cousin was in town and he was none too pleased either about being shut off from the joys of going door to door extorting candy. So we conjured up a plan to hit the streets and wreak havoc around town. If we can’t have treats..we said...we’re going to pull a few Halloween tricks.  Well, our bravado was strong until I sneaked up to a neighbor’s shed in the alley. There were some boards stacked up against the building and a step ladder leaning against it. My plan was to carry them off and dump ‘em in a neighbor’s yard. That first foray into vandalism had my heart racing so fast I nearly fainted. I managed to toss a couple boards onto a nearby lawn and knock the ladder down when the back porch light came on and we exploded into a dead run fully expecting a load of buckshot in our backsides.

Then, just as quickly as it came, the terror left and we proceeded to work our way downtown to see if we could gang up with other pubescent teens roving the streets looking to make trouble.  Sure enough, there were about 10 kids hanging out in front of the drug store and even though most of them were older, we were invited to tag along on their mission of mayhem.

Anything that wasn’t fastened down or locked up was fair game to be tossed onto Kasan Avenue..our main street. It was littered for three blocks with garbage barrels, lawn chairs, bicycles, flower pots and firewood. Every time we’d see the town cop, Ferman Feeney, we’d take off running in different directions only to rendezvous back at the drug store..act as if nothing had happened and plan another raid.  Earlier, one of the guys  put a bag of poop on the front step of Mr. Holtz..the high school agriculture teacher..set it on fire, knocked on the door. We all ran like hell hoping to see him stomp out the flame and get feces on his shoe. Mr. Holtz, however, had obviously seen that prank before and just let the bag burn. He knew who the likely suspects were and would exact his revenge when he had them in study hall the next day. (Ferman Feeney eventually got tired of being outsmarted and out run by us rotten hooligans so he started deputizing members of the local Jaycee chapter on Halloween night which dramatically reduced the crime rate.)

Being part of a gang of vandals was pretty cool, but you can only tip over so many back alley burn barrels before it gets sort of boring. That’s when we spotted Pete driving up the street in his ’49 Studebaker.

Pete lived on a farm west of town. He was three years older than us but we’d known each other all our lives so when we hollered for him to stop..he did and we piled in.

We couldn’t wait to tell him about all the evil activities we’d been up to..littering the streets, soaping windows and dodging Feeney.

Pete just laughed and shook his head. “That’s nothing.”  “When I was your age, we used to go around the country on Halloween night tipping over outhouses.”  “Now that’ll put the fear of god into ya.” He said

Whoa..that’s big time vandalism compared to our little petty offenses.

“Yeah,” I said, “ too bad nobody has outdoor cans anymore. That’d be fun.”

“Oh, there are still a few around,” Pete said, “but most of ‘em are outta town. You wanna check ‘em out?”

My mind said, good grief NO..what if we got caught? 
This is reform school stuff.
But instead I blurted out, “heck yeah.” And we headed toward the country school just down the road from my cousin’s place.

We drove by slowly on the gravel road making sure there was nobody behind the school building guarding the biffy.

“We gotta be careful,” Pete said. “I’ve heard of people moving the privy a few feet off the hole so if a vandal approached with intentions of tipping it, he’d fall right into the pit. That’d be tough to explain to mom on wash day.”

Pete pulled his Studebaker into the driveway, shut off the lights and whispered..let’s go.

I have never been as excited and afraid at the same time as I was at that moment. We crouched down as if sneaking up on a German machine gun nest. Then Pete said, “On three…one, two, three…we all gave a mighty shove and over she went with a thud.

The dirty deed done, we flew back to the car and sped off in a cloud of dust.

The next day I was sick to my stomach at the thought of somebody having to clean up the mess we caused.

All those hours sitting in church and Sunday school..wasted.

All the hopes and dreams my parents had for their son to be a “good boy” ..dashed.

I wish now, I’d have summoned up the courage to confess my crimes right there and then..but I didn’t, of course..and it's pretty late now. 
Perhaps 50 years of guilt and shame I feel each Halloween is punishment enough.