Welcome to another Saturday Story day on my blog. This is a pet project of mine, a resolution or sorts, to record my family lore. As always, I have to put in a word of encouragement to all of you to do the same. Record them now, while you still remember them; one story at a time.
Today, I want to tell you a story about my dad. He grew up in a tiny village in New York. His mom, Granny, worked as a telephone operator in a nearby town when Dad was little. She often took Dad to work with her. Back in those days, it was safer to allow a four year old to wander about unsupervised.
One day, being the curious youngster that he was, he left the office where Granny was working. He saw the mailman going down the street putting mail in the boxes. It looked like fun to him, so he followed. At each mailbox, he’d reach in, grab the letters, and tear them into pieces. Down the lane he went, destroying everyone’s mail. Now at this point the story gets a bit fuzzy. Some versions say that Dad did this for a couple of days in a row until the FBI was called in to investigate. Other versions say that this was a one time offense and that it was witnessed by a neighbor who called the local authorities. Either way, someone showed up at his house. Dad’s older sisters told him the policeman was “coming to get him,” so he hid behind a chair while the adults talked. I imagine there was a meeting with the paddle, too, but that was left out of the tale.
I must say, this was just the beginning of a childhood full of adventures.