Sunday Best

Throughout junior high school (now called middle school) I was a typical latchkey kid. A latchkey kid is one who lets himself in the house after school because no one is home to greet (or care) for him. My dad was stationed overseas in the Air Force, and my mom was a catering manager at a large hotel in Central Florida.

I can't explain it, but I felt the need to go to church on a fairly regular basis. My mother never went, except on Easter. There were two local churches near my home --- one Methodist, and one Lutheran. They were both within bike-riding distance. I seem to remember visiting the Lutheran church and joining the Methodist church, not necessarily in that order. The Lutheran service was stuffy, what I would later call liturgical. It contained a lot of responsive reading, prayers that were read and a formalized communion. I don't think that I went very often.

The Methodist church was more informal, and the pastor was a nice fellow. I even attended some Wednesday nights. I had a best friend, Jimmy D., who would go with me sometimes. Jimmy was a skinny Yankee who had a mouth on him (He used the F-word a lot.), but he was a loyal friend, and we talked about everything. One Wednesday night at the Methodist church, we were sitting in the back, talking lowly, but snickering a bit more loudly --- about what, I didn't have a clue. After a while, the pastor asked us to step outside with him, where he proceeded to explain that, while we were welcome at the church, we would have to behave properly. I was sufficiently embarrassed to where I never misbehaved in church again. Jimmy, however, went on to do time.

The only other "religious" associate in middle school was a Catholic kid who lived in the neighborhood. He, Jimmy and I roamed the community, camped out and participated in my first (and only) experience at vandalism. Back in those days the fruit market owners in small towns were very trusting; they left their goods set out all night, unprotected. During one of our campouts, we roamed the area and came upon the stand. Being hungry, we helped ourselves --- then proceeded to smash fruit --- bowling with cantalopes, launching watermelons and firing tomatoes. (I'm embarassed even now to write about it.)

We didn't destroy many, just enough to qualify as vandalism. Well, Jimmy D. bragged about it to the girls living behind my house. They told their mom. She called my mom. I was called on the carpet. My mother threatened to haul me down to the store owner to personally apologize. She didn't do it because she didn't particularly like the neighbor lady poking into our business. She should have busted me. But I was humiliated enough that my teenage life of crime ended right there.

The purpose of this side story is that, after the incident, the three friends discussed our involvement. Jimmy D. was fine, because he knew just how many times that you could go before the judge before you were finally sent to juvenile detention. The Catholic boy was fine, because he was taught (or so he felt) that you could do anything you wanted, as long as you went to confession and made it right. I wasn't fine, because I had disappointed my mother. And it hurt.