North Star Writers Group

I’m telling you that because at the age of 66 I’ve decided to take a tip from the hit TV series My Name is Earl and seek atonement for all of the bad things I’ve done in my life.

Now don’t get me wrong. I’m not an evil person. In fact, I think I’m a pretty nice guy. But over the years I’ve done some things I’m not . . . um. . particularly proud of.

Unfortunately, most of the people I’ve done these things to are gone now and won’t see my apologies. But, for my own sake, I’m doing it anyway.

I’m sorry, Mr. Dingman. Mr. Dingman, a kind and gentle man, owned a little grocery that sat in the shadow of Oak Street Elementary School in Flint, Michigan when I was a student there. Every afternoon, as we walked home from school, a bunch of us kids would stop at Mr. Dingman’s store to buy penny candy. The penny had awesome buying power back then, especially if you were eight years old. Well, during one of those visits to the store, I think it was in 1947, I didn’t have any pennies, so I pocketed a piece of Dubble Bubble gum without paying for it.

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I’m sorry, Fr. John Callahan. He was pastor of the Catholic Church I attended when I was a kid and every Saturday when my mother sent me to confession to ask forgiveness for my sins. I never had many good sins, so I’d make some up. On that same note, when Fr. Callahan made me say 20 Lord’s Prayers and 10 Hail Mary’s, I’d always do the Lord’s Prayers, but slough off all but one or two of the Hail Mary’s so I could get home and play baseball with my friends.

I’m sorry, Paula Chapman. Paula, my first love, was in my fourth grade class. She was gorgeous and wore her hair in long pigtails. At least six times a day I would sneak up behind her, yank on a pigtail and then run. She caught others doing it, including my best friend Teddy Newberry, and the class tough guy David Bostator. But she never caught me.

I’m sorry, Gracie Fields. Miss Fields, an English teacher, was a living legend at Flint Central High School. She would greet each new class by hiding in the closet until everybody was in the room. Then, as they sat there wondering where the teacher was, she would suddenly leap out of the closet brandishing a sword and screaming “On guard, you (expletives deleted).” Before one of her many tests, I wrote the answers to three or four particularly difficult (for me) questions on my wrist. Then, much to my disappointment, I discovered none of those questions even appeared on the test.

I’m sorry, Steve Johnson. In 1962 I was playing golf with Steve and we decided to have a $20 side bet for the best score after 18 holes. I had a 97; he shot a 98. I took the money. Truth is, when I got home and examined my score card I discovered I’d forgotten to count the two tee shots I knocked into the creek on 14, so I actually lost the match by a stroke. I wanted to phone you, Steve, but then I discovered I’d lost your number.

I’m sorry Tall Man with a Beard Who Was Wearing A Plaid Shirt. I don’t know your name but we met at a supermarket in Englewood in 1973. Well, we didn’t actually meet, but I did take the cart you were using when I discovered I didn’t have enough arms to carry a six-pack of beer, a 22-pound frozen turkey and a cantaloupe. And, just in case you’re wondering Tall Man with a Beard Who Was Wearing A Plaid Shirt, I stacked the items I removed from your cart on the bread display.

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