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News / Life / Clark County Life

Everybody Has a Story: After returning pilfered bracelet, tears and a real ice cream bar

By Carolyn Molyneux, Proebstel
Published: September 7, 2016, 6:00am

Our home and business in Missouri was only known as The Tavern. The summer of 1958 was filled with fantasy and adventure for a 5-year-old. Each day would start with chores. The one I liked least was picking up trash outside the building.

Salting the dance floor, so it wouldn’t be sticky, was fun. J.B., my stepdad, would throw handfuls of salt on the floor, and I would run and slide across it until the salt was evenly spread out. When the chores were done, we would shoot craps or I would play entertainer. I’d get lifted up on the bar, then dance and sing to songs on the jukebox.

When J.B. poured his first beer, he would give me a Popsicle out of the freezer case. I sometimes begged for a real ice cream bar with chocolate coating, but he always said, “Those are only for paying customers.”

There was a display case next to the cash register. It held some practical things like cigarettes and lighters, but what I liked were the pretty things. I spent hours staring at the jewelry. There was one bracelet in particular that I fell in love with. It was blue and sparkly. The rhinestones were as valuable as diamonds, in my eyes.

One day I opened the case ever so quietly and took the bracelet out, just to get a closer look. But once I held it, I couldn’t put it back. I decided to stash my treasure someplace grown-ups never went.

The old schoolhouse seemed a world away across an open meadow of tall grass and wildflowers. I could spend an entire day getting there and back. I headed out across the meadow. Foxglove caught my attention, and I stopped for a game of make believe. I put one purple bloom on each finger and was transformed into a fancy lady with painted nails, or maybe a cackling wicked witch, or a fierce tiger. After exhausting that game, I continued on. But spotting a praying mantis or walking stick required more stops to observe their peculiar shapes and slow movements.

Eventually, I arrived at my destination. All that remained of the schoolhouse was a crumbled chimney and a wood floor with a few desks still bolted down. I hid my treasure inside one of the desks.

My friend Bobby and I had spent long hours playing among those ruins. He came to the schoolhouse that day, but I has afraid he would find my treasure, so I insisted we walk to his house. He lived in a large farm house, more weathered gray than white. A well behind his house was the family’s only water supply. Between the two of us, we could push and pull the pump handle fast enough to get the water splashing out on our bare feet. It never took long for his sister to chase us off and scold us for wasting water.

We went back to the Tavern and played outside. Our outhouse was one of Bobby’s choice spots to explore. He thought it was cool because it had three holes, small, medium, and large. He teased me about coming out at night and sitting on the big hole. Said I’d fall in and nobody would ever find me.

Just before dark, Bobby left for home. The Tavern was getting busy. Knowing I wasn’t to be seen at night, I went in the back door. We lived behind the grill, in a space separated from it by a navy blanket. There was enough room for a small table were I ate my dinner before going to bed. I’d been so busy playing with Bobby, that I had forgotten about taking the bracelet, and easily fell asleep.

In the morning after I had finished picking up trash, J.B. told me to go get that bracelet. I could hear him breathing heavily like he did when he was mad. I had never been in this kind of trouble before. Feeling my heart pounding in my chest, I hurried across the meadow, not stopping for flowers, bugs or Bobby. I grabbed the box with my treasure inside and rushed back to the Tavern, crying all the way. My beautiful bracelet had lost its luster. I no longer wanted it.

I handed the box over to J.B. and waited for my punishment. When J.B. raised his hand, I expected it to come down across my face. Instead, he pulled out his handkerchief and wiped away my tears. He walked over to the freezer case and pulled out an ice cream bar, a real one with chocolate coating, and handed it to me.

“It’s a good thing you didn’t lie to me, Ace,” he said. “Eat your ice cream. It’s time we spread that salt.”


Everybody Has a Story welcomes nonfiction contributions, 1,000 words maximum, and relevant photographs. Email is the best way to send materials so we don’t have to retype your words or borrow original photos. Send to: neighbors@columbian.com or P.O. Box 180, Vancouver WA, 98666. Call Scott Hewitt, 360-735-4525, with questions.

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