Bread and a Little Jam

I've never told this story to anyone before. 

When I was eight, my family lived in the very, very small town of Silver Lake, Oregon.  The town of Silver Lake boasted a one-pump gas station, a schoolhouse of four rooms, and just one main paved road right through the center, out of which branched a dozen or so winding dirt roads.  There was no supermarket, so going grocery shopping meant an hour drive to the city. 

We did have a little corner store that sold a limited variety of staples such as milk, nails, and pastel candy buttons, and it was to here that I sometimes rode my bicycle to pick things up for my mother.  I don't think my mom knew how much I hated this errand.  Hated it, because I was this timid, shy little kid who hesitated to make eye contact with anyone, including the nice elderly man behind the cash register. 

On this particular day, she sent me to buy a loaf of bread.  I carefully pocketed the dollar bill she handed me, and set off on my bike.   When I got to the store, I parked my bike and winced slightly as the front door tinkled my arrival.  I headed to the bakery rack and gently squeezed a loaf of Wonder bread as my mom had taught me.  Deeming it fresh enough, I carried it up to the counter where I gazed longingly at the candy buttons behind the glass.  Still thinking about candy, I walked out to my bike and headed home.

It wasn't until 10 minutes later, when my bicycle wheels were wobbling up our gravel pathway that I realized I still had that dollar in my pocket!  My feet actually froze on the pedals as the horror of what I had done hit me, knocking me over with my bike on top.

Now, let me just pause in the telling for a moment and consider what any other kid would have done in this situation.  Would she have biked back to the store and sheepishly handed over the dollar?  Maybe, if she was brave.  Would she have gone inside and admitted her mistake to her mother? Maybe, if she was honest.  Would she have just hid the dollar and taken the bread inside anyway?  Maybe, if she was smart.

Me?  On this day I was none of those things.  I was a panicked little girl whose brain scrambled to come up with the perfect cover-up...one which did NOT involve going back to the store and facing the nice man who had just watched me brazenly walk out his door with my loaf of pilfered Wonder bread.

I decided to get rid of the evidence, and I tossed that loaf of bread into the bushes at the end of our driveway.  What was I thinking?  Did I think it was going to just magically disappear?  Possibly.  Panic-stricken eight-year-olds are clearly not the best problem solvers. 

So, I went into my house and gave my mom back the dollar, telling her that the store was out of bread.  She accepted that with a shrug and began to make soup for lunch instead of peanut butter sandwiches.  It was so easy.  And I didn't get in trouble.  Feeling satisfied with myself, I buried my shoplifting guilt in the back of my mind and went off to play.

It was a short-lived relief, though.  That loaf of bread...that stupid loaf of tell-tale bread!  Wouldn't you know it?  The very next day my mom came rushing through our front door holding up a loaf of Wonder bread!  Wow, she exclaimed!   Here we were...all out of bread with none in the store, and what do you know?  Somebody accidentally dropped a loaf of bread right in front of our house!  Was that providence, or what??

We ate our peanut butter sandwiches that day, mine sticking in my throat more than usual.  Smiling at me, my mom gave me an unexpected second sandwich just because.   And although I had no appetite for it, by God...I ate every bite.

My mom never said anything to me about the bread.  I never knew if she really knew the truth or not, and the wondering about that was enough punishment in itself.  Coincidentally, my days of shopping went on hiatus for a time.  My mom began sending my plucky little sister Jacque, who wasn't scared of anybody or anything...and whatever scrapes she got into, she always brought home the bread.