The 1954 Jersey Milk Caper…

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I choose to believe that I was a decent, respectable, upstanding eight-year-old boy in the summer of 1954. And I hold fast to this belief despite one childish misstep. It was the day I impulsively swiped a Jersey Milk chocolate bar from Meyers’ Grocery & Variety. Even though this was my first (and only) heist, I knew enough to quickly stash the loot. And I was doing just that, while sitting on the steps of the back porch, when my mother appeared. “What’s that you’re eating?” she asked, offhandedly.

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I glanced up, unaware of the chocolaty evidence on my chin. “Uh, nothing,” I shrugged, “I’m just sitting here.”

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She reached down and, ever so gently, turned over my left hand.

“And where did this come from?” she asked, while eyeballing the last two squares of the pilfered Jersey Milk. The jig was up – but I panicked.

“I uh, I found it on the sidewalk, over by Meyers. I guess somebody dropped it.”

“I don’t think so.” mum said, thoughtfully. “Because if that were true, and you had really found it, you would be excited. But instead, you seem to be embarrassed – almost as if you’re hiding something.”

Oh, she was good. I had so much to learn about being a credible liar. And at this point I must have realized that there was no way out.

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“I’m sorry,” I whispered, staring down at my shoes. “I uh…I didn’t find it on the sidewalk…I stole it from Meyers…”

My words just sort of hung in the air as I waited for the axe to fall. But mum’s voice was calm, not angry or enraged, as she gently suggested, “Terry, I think you should wash up and then go tell Mr. Meyers what you did.”

I remember feeling relieved. “Hey, this isn’t so bad,” I thought, “just a simple confession. No house-arrest and I’ll still have my allowance.”

But when I walked into the small, neighbourhood store, I knew right away this was not going to be easy. John Meyers was a tall, thin man, who bore an uncanny resemblance to the movie star, Jimmy Stewart (ask your parents). I waited nervously as his only customer paid for her groceries and left.

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“What can I do for you, son?” Mr. Meyers asked.

“I’m uh, I’m here to tell you something…”

I swallowed hard and took a deep breath. “I stole a chocolate bar…”

There was silence – except for the pounding in my chest. “I promise to pay you back. But I don’t get my allowance ‘til Saturday.”

Mr. Meyers stepped out from behind the counter. “It’s always nice to meet an honest man.” he said, smiling, as he shook my hand. I was dumbfounded, as he continued. “I have an idea that might be good for both of us.”

He went on to explain that he needed help each morning to stock shelves, sweep floors and make deliveries. The job paid 25 cents an hour plus anything I made in tips.

“It’s yours if you want It.” he said.

I was relieved yet puzzled by his understanding and generosity. Nevertheless, by summer’s end, I had a little money in the bank, a new baseball glove and a pretty healthy respect for myself.

John Meyers was 94-years-old when he passed away in 2005. And I never did get around to thanking him.

Thanks, John.

Terry serves up a little food-for-thought each week and welcomes all comments: countrysunshine@xplornet.ca

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