From as far back as I can remember, I always had a fascination with rock collecting. One of the highlights of our annual summer vacations in the Wisconsin Dells (before it became the Water Park Capitol of the World), was exploring the souvenir shops on the Downtown Strip. I would pass up the aisles of rubber tomahawks, rawhide drums, and beaded moccasins, and head straight to the small area where they displayed little rock specimens glued onto cardboard backing.
Over the years, I added geodes, crystals, samples of petrified wood, pieces of stalactites, and chunks of lava, to the collection. But the one thing that I didn't have was a fossil.
In first grade, our seat assignments went by alphabetical order. Even though the first letter of my last name was at the beginning of the alphabet, I sat in the last seat in the first row along the windows, in the back of the class. Right behind me was a table that was used for activities and show and tell.
One day a classmate brought in an amazing assortment of - you guessed it - fossils. There was one in particular, well, actually two - two halves of a beautifully articulated leaf. It was only a few inches big, but I had to have it. I knew it was wrong. I knew I stood a good chance of getting caught, but I didn't care.
Towards the end of the school day, without moving my head, my eyes roved all around me. When I felt the coast was clear, I reached behind me, grabbed both halves and stuck one in each of my pants pockets under my desk.
I don't know if I thought that he would miss it among all the other items. I don't really know what I was thinking, but just before the bell was set to ring, my classmate came back to pack up his belongings. He missed the fossils immediately. He turned right to me and said he knew I took them. He said his dad would be very angry at him and that I could give them back no questions asked.
I was actually on the verge of handing them back, but by this time, the teacher had come back to see what the trouble was. Now my only thought was to not get caught. The fossil halves felt as big and heavy as bricks in my pockets. My classmate told the teacher what the problem was and accused me outright of the theft. Our teacher confronted me and asked if I had taken them. I continued to deny it.
The bell rang and the teacher dismissed the class, who were all watching the exchange. I have no clear recollection of how I got out of the classroom, without being caught dead to rights, with my ill gotten booty.
When I got home, I buried the fossil in the very bottom of the box containing my rock collection. On the one hand, I felt very guilty. I had stolen, gotten a classmate in trouble with his father, and made another enemy. On the other hand, I had not gotten caught, and had added what would be the prize possession of my collection.
Two of the Twelve Steps of recovery are:
Step 8. Make a list of all persons we had harmed, and become willing to make amends to them all.
Step 9. Make direct amends to such people wherever possible.
Over the last half century, not one day has gone by, especially in the age of social networking, when I have not thought of tracking down my old classmate, apologizing, and returning the fossil (yes, I still have it).
I have a lot of excuses for not doing so. It's still the best piece in my rock collection. It would be too awkward to contact this person after fifty years. I just don't want to.
My legal counsel assures me that the statute of limitations has run out for the crime. But my heart tells me that it has not.
What are you waiting for?
ReplyDelete