I gave a presentation at the Bradford County Library recently. It was great going back. I grew up in the area and knew many of the women – including a woman I did not expect to see -- Mary Smythe, my high school English teacher. She had a tough exterior but she was passionate about the language and literature and taught me a lot. She also encouraged my need to write. “You remember me?” I asked. “I remember you well,” she said. “You once wrote a paper saying all you were interested in at that point in your life was sex!” I don’t think I blushed, but I was stunned. Yes, I was a little rebellious in high school but I don’t remember writing something like that in the mid 1960s. “I think you did it just to shock me,” Mary said, laughing. “But it’s pretty hard to shock me. I guess you know that.” After I gave my talk, someone asked about my experiences and if any made it into the book. I thought about it and remembered that the scene of Poul stealing some pennies out of the Sunday School collection plate was based on my experience. I stole a toy animal from the Sunday School sandbox. When you’re five, you have to be damned good to steal something in a public area. You have to be a burglar prodigy. To be a successful thief at age five, you have to be born to do it. It must be a God-given talent. I was not born to do it and I was caught. The woman who nailed me didn’t overdo it. She told me it was wrong to steal anywhere. But to steal from a Sunday School was way out of bounds. After all, God was watching. I hadn’t really thought about that but it made sense. We’d praying and singing hymns to Him and Jesus so they probably felt obligated look in. I got away lightly, but the experience burned pretty deep. It was embarrassing to get caught. To be singled out as a failed thief is humiliating. What do you say? “I was just borrowing it.” That’s what I said. It didn’t work, of course. “Thieves have been saying that for thousands of years. “Hey! I was going to bring it back. Really!” The best thing about the Cross Roads Methodist Church was Marlas Bradley. She was 17 and beautiful with thick blond hair, blue eyes and the face of an angel. The age difference between her and me made no difference. I was in love. I was going to grow up, seek her out and borrow her forever. “She’s still beautiful,” one woman told me at the library reading. The memories felt good. I sold and signed a lot of books. Mary Smythe bought one and I signed it “To the perfect teacher.” She read it and was not to be outdone. “From the perfect student,” she said, smiling as she walked away.
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