We were three 13-year old boys walking home down Bertel Drive just before ten o’clock on a Friday night in August, 1977. We had just rounded the corner off Pine Drive when suddenly, there it was, a sheriff’s cruiser with its hand-controlled search light sweeping the yards just ahead of us.  

We thought about running, but Ronnie still had a roll of toilet paper left. Dropping it would solve nothing and scattering would get ugly as the out-of-shape parish deputies would be tempted to give chase. 

Ronnie stuffed the unused roll up the back of his loose mesh shirt and then began playing nervously with the front of his shirt, keeping it just taught enough to hold the incriminating roll in place, but not so much as to give away the Charmin’s hiding place. 

We lied of course, when asked about the houses in the neighborhood with snowy white trees in their yards. On hot Louisiana summer nights, one would think snowy trees would be rare, indeed. And they were, unless they had been the victim of an avalanche of tissue rolls. 

We doubled down when asked who else could be responsible. Is this how real criminals were hatched, by this sort of brilliant, on-the-fly story telling? 

We were innocent, we swore to the deputies, but we may have seen those responsible drive off in an old yellow Ford pick up truck. We were sure they had been drinking. We, on the other hand were just heading home to camp out in one of our back yards, which of course was the honest truth.

When released from the impromptu interrogation, Ronnie walked in front of us, so the officers would not see the sizable lump near his waist. It was a serious deformity, after all. The deputies continued on with their lazy sweep of the neighborhood. 

I would like to say that we TP'ed one last tree at the twins’ house, which had been our original plan. But we thought better of pushing our luck. What was there to gain from such bravado? We had a better story to relive and retell that night as we camped in a tent near the ancient oak. 

Next week, we would sneak into the neighbors’ yard behind my house and skinny dip in their pool, if we could be sure their little wiener dogs wouldn’t be patrolling the patio. 

moist, sticky evenings

crawfish castles and bullfrogs ...

hurricane brewing