Seems like everyone around me these days has a police record….
What gives, I wonder?
What’s up with that?!
My record is basically lily white and at my age and temperament,
it is likely to stay that way.
Or so I thought...
As I pondered this oddity, it came to me, a bit belatedly,
that I actually had had a couple of early run-ins with the law!
I actually had a police record! I indeed!
So much for thinking I was above the rest...
Once more, the joke was on me…
Now, this was not a record that a criminal would be proud of...
Oh no…not at all!
And so, donning the lens of judiciary perception, I began to recall
a rather lengthy and disorderly history of run-ins with the law
that I had conveniently banished to the recesses of my subconscious.
I’m pretty sure, given the time span involved, that I can no longer be held accountable for these crimes due to statute of limitation laws.
So it is safe to confess my crimes at long last...
The list runs as long as my 3 year old arm…
I started out breaking out of jail at the earliest opportunity....
jail being my parents’ home.
I would sneak back in for meals and sleep, but I needed to be certain at all times that I could break free again.
I had places to go...things to do!
From time to time, I would get caught.
I gave my folks a terrible fright now and then!
They put their heads together in an effort to contain me.
They installed more and better locks, they reinforced windows, the works!
I made it my business to outwit them at every turn.
I practiced constantly, honing my skills, primarily those of disguise ie: wearing my mother’s dresses and heels, subterfuge (I could spell it at that tender age), accepting bribes of candy from the night shift factory workers with whom I visited in the pre-dawn hours, duplicity and breaking and entering upon my return.
My criminal behavior escalated, however, when I followed the milk
delivery van by our house very early one morning.
Thinking that I might bribe my folks with a gift of milk if caught,
and mimicking my mom’s borrowing of a cup of sugar, etc. from the lady next door, it seemed reasonable enough to borrow the neighbor’s milk jug.
The theft of that milk bottle landed me in the emergency room with shards of evidence embedded in my arms after I fell forward from the weight of it.
The punishment seemed to fit the crime and I was released with a stern warning.
There was a period of peace after that....even reform, once the nuns
got hold of me in Catholic school-the Penitentiary of earliest reckoning.
But, as I said, I was reforming myself pretty handily.
I had made a bold turnaround and was bent on becoming Saint Debbie before something worse could happen.
But it wasn’t long before I found myself in the back of a police cruiser, headed back to jail once again!
“Er…Mr. and Mrs. Rouse? Is this your daughter?” intoned the burly officer.
Wide-eyed and gape-mouthed, my folks alternately glared at me
and made confused gesticulations toward the good officer.
They had no idea that I was pounding pavement at 5am on a frosty
Green Bay morning.
“I was just on my way to church!” I cried woefully.
"Was that against the law?!"
Apparently I appeared to be on the slippery edge of somebody’s law!
Discussions regarding jurisdiction ensued!
Whose law prevailed? The city ordinances, my folks or God’s?
They, being unprepared for this level of complexity, faltered ever so briefly.
There was a moment’s pause-a costly mistake, from which I snatched the victory!
From that time forward, my folks had to let me attend 5:45 am daily Mass and the police agreed to keep an eye out for me.
From time to time, my patience and my parents’ exasperation were tested when an officer, new to the beat, would pick me up for questioning and the scene would once again be repeated at my parents’ house. But, each time, the law held firm.
Keeping my record clean these days…
Debra Robinson / skydancer@ij.net
There I lay, wide awake at 4:18 am on a Sunday morning in Brooklyn, New
York.
It was my only day off and I had planned to sleep in, but I
could tell that there
would be no more sleep.
So instead of struggling, I
savored the quiet…or relative quiet of the sleeping city…
a brief
respite from the constant clamor and restlessness.
4:00 AM is a very
inspirational time for many of us.
The noisy planet goes quiet and subtle
feelings and thoughts can emerge for a time
for those who listen.
I had no particular plans for the day ahead.
I sat up and
sensed the feelings inside me.
It felt like a day to move…to really mooove. It was a
‘get out of town’ day.
Even more, it felt like a ‘run
away from home ‘ kind of day.
Those were rarer… and terribly important when they come.
A day like that comes as more of a summons.
A day like that can save your life…or set the stage for the next
chapter.
I have experienced both.
A day like this possesses all kinds of magic…
I got up quickly, pulled on jeans, sneakers and a comfortable
sweater
and slipped outside to my car. I inhaled the early morning
air.
I felt the thrill of freedom. It was almost
conspiratorial.
I suddenly remembered with an almost wicked grin that I have always loved
running away from home.
All I had to do was pick a direction. Where had I not ventured?
South!! Done!
I would worry about the reasons
later. What mattered now was that I hightail it
out of Brooklyn and head
for open road. I needed to breathe new air!
The day would come to
me as it came…
I left town after town behind me. South and south and south....
State line by state line. And it all felt so good…. So
right…
The sun was rising full in the morning sky.
The further south I went,
the happier I felt.
I wondered how long I would drive and where I
would end up.
As the morning warmed, I smelled jasmine and pine and salt
coast…
and sweet, sweet freedom.
No one knew where I was. Just me…free of everything.
Free
of routine and expectations. Free forever if I chose…
and, if
not…completely free for this day.
I ventured off the main highway and took to the hilly back roads.
It
wasn’t long before I was completely lost and winding through
the most
enchanting and rustic landscapes.
I smelled morning mist and wood smoke.
I heard unfamiliar birdsong.
There was rustling in the
undergrowth… raccoons and possums.
Then I came upon foraging
deer. It was another world… the real world.
It broke the city
trance that I had been caught up in.
And I was grateful…
The world was timeless once more.
I meandered as a child might,
heedless and simply happy.
I stopped near a clearing, fetched a blanket
from my car and spread it out on the ground.
I laid down and watched the
sun light sprinkling the leaves overhead.
I dozed for awhile, overcome by
the intoxicating forest air and the warm sun.
I woke gently as the sun dipped over the mountain leaving all in shadow and
coolness.
I stretched and yawned and shook off any remnants of city life
still clinging to me.
As I gathered up my blanket and headed back to my car,
I
realized for the first time that day that I was hungry.
I
wasn’t sure where I was or how to find the highway again, but other than being
hungry,
I didn’t much care.
I got back in my car and continued to wander
through unmarked roads.
Suddenly I rounded a tight bend and caught
the scent of ham…and more.
I had stumbled on an old diner... an ancient
log cabin with a faded sign that read
‘Biscuits, red eye gravy,
grits’.
The parking lot was filled with pickup trucks and old cars
that had seen better days.
This was definitely my kind of place!
I stepped through the screen door as confidently as I could, knowing that
all eyes
would be on me...the unlikely stranger.
I felt like I had
crossed the border into a foreign country that didn’t much care
for outsiders...even less for city dwellers.
A hush came over the diner.
God, how I wished I hadn’t brushed my hair or put on clean blue jeans.
It was useless to attempt to be unobtrusive.
The waitress sized me up
warily...
After a long minute she sauntered over with a pot of coffee and a
menu
and gruffly stood by, waiting for my order, acting for all the world
like
she had better things to do.
The patrons watched the exchange
approvingly.
But I knew that once their curiosity was satisfied that
they would return
to their conversations and it would be my turn to study them.
I ordered the platter with absolutely everything, imagining myself as a
food critic…
from New York City, no less.
I would have to sample it
all. They could think what they liked...
When the food arrived, I was truly amazed!
Never had I seen breakfast
on such a scale!
Before me was spread a mountain of food… an all day breakfast!
Fried pies, stewed apples, biscuits, sausage gravy,
muffins,
cheesy scrambled eggs, country fried potatoes, pancakes, two
kinds of ham,
red eye gravy, three kinds of sausage, fried chicken, every kind
of pork
one could imagine…and last, but not least…grits.
It would be hard to even sample
everything.
But I know good home cooking when I see it and this was worth
the trip.
Welcome to the South!
I knew I had reached my
destination..the pinnacle of this day’s experience.
I dined for
three hours, slowly savoring each offering…delighting in an experience and
place I would never see again.
The casual abundance of a simpler life...
Foods prepared by
hand… hands that were not hurried…
hands that took the time to do
things right...
I took in a whole new world
that day.
I drove slowly back north, changed in so many ways by all
the gifts of that brief journey.
Every now and then, no matter
where I’m living, I still drive South for breakfast...