More Growing up in Sask.

It does not take a long time to find and make friends in a small town. There are only a few kids your age and if it is not them, it is nobody. When all concerned come to this realization, the process is quick and efficient. At that time, there were only three boys to choose from, two from my end of town and one from across town. There were kids older and younger, kids who were siblings of friends, and the odd visitor. We only all came together for school or for impromptu sporting events, namely road hockey, softball, and tackle football. The warm summer evenings saw kids congregate for 'Kick the Can' which often lasted well into the darkness of the evening, but only the west end kids participated because it would be too dark for the others to make their way home after sunset. The street lights were few and far between, and not all of them worked all of the time. A kid can't just play all day. There comes a time when the introduction of work has to take place. It was a foreign concept to my friends, but my parents, having been raised the way they were, were determined to instil within me a strong work ethic at a very early age. Had we lived on a farm, I would have been mucking barns, weeding gardens, chasing pigs and cows around the barnyard or doing some other such activity to contribute to the smooth management of the farming operation. But operating a retail grocery store presented countless opportunities for my Dad to put me to work. I have to admit that most of the time I really enjoyed it.
My duties became numerous and as I worked alongside my Father, I was relieved that I did not have to do household chores at the beck and call of my Mother. She was more of a slave driver and a perfectionist and the little rewards at the store could not be had at home. My Father had a sweet tooth and at all times had a stash of goodies on the go somewhere in the store. As I discovered these secret places over the years, I would sneak a bit for myself, taking care not to pilfer too much or the game would be up. I was naïve to think I could fool him. He knew, but he was a soft touch. He had a weakness for Liquorice Allsorts and Chocolate Macaroons. Being his son, I did too. How convenient.
The work of keeping the shelves filled became my duty. As the products disappeared from their places, I would make my way into the warehouse at the back of the store, find the appropriate box, and bring back enough items to fill the blank spaces in the shelves. The larger, more durable goods, such as soaps, cereals and paper products were kept in the big spooky barn-like warehouse, while the canned goods and more perishable items were kept in a hidden aisle between the two main shelves that ran the length of the store. The height of the shelves was around six feet so if I stood on a box and peered over the top of the shelf, I could not only see what was required to replenish the stock, but I could also spy on the goings on in the store.
That leads me to another important task. I was to ‘keep an eye on certain people’ when they were shopping in the store. It seems they had sticky fingers and my Dad would not say that they were not welcome in his store, but he believed if they were watched, they would be discouraged from stealing and would pay for most of what they came to get. This was a favourite pastime of mine and I soon got to know which people could be caught in the act. My instructions were to let my Dad know and leave it at that, but my detective juices would begin to flow and I found it to be a great adventure to catch people in the act of stealing. I constructed various blinds and hiding places with peep holes and soon felt I was spying on the whole world. This was supposed to be an activity that was to occupy my spare time only, but I managed to integrate the Dick Tracy side of me in almost all I did in the store. One thing it did for sure, and that was to instil in me a strong ethic of "Thou Shalt Not Steal".
There were several memorable occasions when customers were caught red handed doing their evil deed. The first one I caught was George Sharp. He was an elderly gentleman who was known all over town as a cigarette thief. My Dad pointed him out to me early in my detective career and told me to never take my eye off him. He was tall and gaunt and wore a dirty black trench coat, no matter the season or the weather. The great black folds and oversized pockets were perfect for his intentions. He would saunter into the store, hoping it would be busy and we would be distracted. I don't remember him ever buying anything, but come he would. I did not want to make it too obvious that I was watching him so I would pretend to be straightening things out in the display cases, all the while using my peripheral vision to scope out his tactics. Almost everyone smoked in those days and there was a large display case containing every cigarette brand imaginable. The back of the case was facing an aisle and as I was looking at the case, knowing he was behind it and knowing his yellow stained fingers were craving a fresh new pack of smokes, there it came. The bony skeletal hand reached over the back of the shelf and so quickly, I almost missed it, gripped several packages and withdrew immediately, probably plunging into the dark recesses of the trench coat pocket. I was shocked and thrilled at the same time. I actually saw someone breaking the law, stealing from my Dad, and sinning against God. Wow! He actually did it. I was frozen with fear that he had seen me witness his misdeed. I walked around to the side he was on, just in time to see him innocently squeezing some ripe bananas, deciding not to buy any today, and then making a hasty retreat to the door. I ran to my Dad and told him what I had witnessed and he must have taken some action because although I saw George around town many times after that, I don't recall him ever coming into our store again.
Another incident that was a little devastating for me was catching my own friends in an elaborate scheme to get some free chocolate at my Dad's expense. It started out innocently enough when Vernon Guenther wandered into the store one summer afternoon and strangely did not go for the candy counter but made his way to the baking section. It did seem strange that an eight year old boy, whose only knowledge and interest in baking consisted of eating it, would gravitate to that particular section of the store. I followed him, asking what it was he was looking for. He told me his Mom had sent him to get something for baking and he was just checking out the price. His Mom, I knew, did not shop at our store, so I thought it strange except for the fact that word was going around town that we had better prices than the other stores in town. He seemed so unsure and undecided that I eventually left him alone and went to do other things. After several minutes he left, out the front door, and never did buy anything. As I made my way to the back of the store where I had been sweeping the floor, a movement caught my eye and I spotted a hand reaching in through the back door which had been propped open for ventilation. I raced to the door just in time to catch a glimpse of Vern's buddy and my best friend running away from the store, clutching a bag of chocolate chips which had been conveniently dropped there. I didn't even bother trying to catch them but told my Dad. He then had the difficult task of phoning the parent's of both boys and arranging for restitution and hopefully, retribution. Neither parents shopped at our store so it was not a great loss in terms of Public Relations.
By far the most memorable detective adventure was the day my Dad took me aside and told me, with a wicked grin on his face, to, "Watch this!"
The perpetrator was near the back of the store when she did the deed, unawares that my Dad had just witnessed a not so subtle shoplifting event. That was when he hatched a plan and made me privy to it. He went to the phone and with the technology of the day, or lack thereof, he made the phone ring. He had a brief but phoney conversation, before calling the lady in question to the front of the store.
"Mrs. Nash. That was your husband Joe on the phone just now. He just called from across the street at the Lumber Yard and he asked me to tell you that he is in a big hurry to get home and to finish your shopping right now and get over there."
My Dad knew this couple and had seen Joe park his farm pickup across the street and walk into the lumber yard while his wife ambled across the street and into our store. He also knew that she had stolen from him many times before but he had never confronted her. He also knew that when Joe said "jump", his wife jumped, or there would be a price to pay.
The shoplifter came slowly to the front and my Dad had only to say "Joe said RIGHT NOW!"
The next few seconds gave us the biggest laugh we had ever had. She began to walk quickly out the door, seeming to pinch her legs together. There was muffled crackling of cellophane coming from under her dress, and as she descended the steps onto the sidewalk and across the street, she began to run. She ran with her knees locked together, but you could easily tell that the prize was rapidly slipping downward. This in turn made her pinch her legs together all the tighter. By the time she managed to stumble across the street to her husband's truck, the bag of crushed Christie's Chocolate Wafer cookies was very much exposed and she nervously looked back to see if there were any witnesses. There were. But they were laughing so hard they could barely see through the tears. I couldn't help but wonder who would eat those cookies now, knowing where they had been. What a waste?