“A father’s goodness is higher than the mountain, and a mother’s goodness deeper than the sea.”
– Japanese Proverb
I did something dumb a few days ago.
That’s not a news flash and certainly not uncommon enough to warrant a column. Moreover, it was a second thought that motivated this missive.
“What would your daddy think?” No words got my attention quicker as a youngster.
I watched an old movie a while back. One about young boys caught throwing rocks at windows. I smiled, not at young brats throwing rocks, but at how the officer dealt with them.
The boys denied their actions and showed little fear until the officer said, “OK boys, let’s go.”
“What,” they laughed? “You taking us to jail?”
“No,” said the policeman. “Worse than that. I’m taking you home to your parents.”
I related. Nothing was more difficult for me as a kid than standing before my father to see disappointment in his eyes for some bone-headed thing I had done. Far more painful than any adequately applied paddle to my backside.
My dad was friends with then Mount Pleasant Police Chief B.C. Sustaire when I was growing up. Chief Sustaire was of the law enforcement era when children were taught to respect authority. It was also a time when society allowed officers of the law to temper strict law enforcement with a dose of common sense when the latter better served the circumstances.
That’s what prevailed one fall mid-60s night when a trio of Mount Pleasant teenagers decided fun would be mischief via some water balloons. However, the fun began to go south when the trio lobbed water-laden projectiles at what they thought was a friend’s car.
Perfect strike. The brake lights on the big Oldsmobile lit up as the car whirled around and gave chase. Fortunately, the new Olds was no match for the old hot rod Ford the boys were cruising in that night.
We were still laughing a half hour later when flashing red lights filled the rearview mirror.
It turns out it wasn’t our friend we had water bombed, but a well-known local businessman who was scared out of his wits when the water balloon exploded on his windshield. And hopping mad.
We accepted the officer’s kind invitation to follow him downtown to meet with the police chief. It’s one thing to get summoned to the station, but it’s another when the chief is called to leave home and come to the station during the night.
Chief Sustaire’s questions were precise, but in a second lapse of good judgment in one night, we offered a convincing argument of innocence. “It must have been someone else in a car similar to ours,” we pleaded.
The chief listened silently, then let us go with a warning. “You boys get on home—it’s too late for you to be out riding around.”
Looking back, he likely knew we were being less than truthful with him. But tempering the situation with common sense, he knew our fate at home would be far more memorable than a policeman’s reprimand.
Sure enough, I had a message waiting the next day after school. “Your father wants to talk to you—now.” When I arrived at Perry Brothers, where he worked, he calmly said, “Let’s take a walk.”
I asked a block down the street, “Where we going?”
“Just around the corner,” he said. A block north on Jefferson Street and around the corner led to an intersection where the post office, the Baptist Church, and an optometrist occupied three corners. City hall and the police station sat on the fourth. Didn’t take a genius to figure out we weren’t headed for any of the first three places.
I sat quietly as my father and Chief Sustaire exchanged a handshake and pleasantries. Then, after a few seconds that seemed like an eternity, my father looked at me and said, “Now, I want you to tell Chief Sustaire one more time what happened last night. This time, I want to hear it, too.”
Suffice it to say I sang a different tune when grilled under the bright lights at the P.D. My dad stood just a few inches more than five feet tall. B.C. Sustaire was a large man; at least that’s how I saw him as a youngster. I was nearing six feet tall when I was a sophomore in high school. Still, I was the smallest person in the room as I confessed and apologized for my behavior and dishonesty.
Chief Sustaire was very gracious. He knew justice would be served because he also knew I respected my father—who was somewhat less benevolent once we got home.
My dad has been gone for almost 18 years now. But even today, every time I do something that begs the question, “What was I thinking,” there’s also that voice that asks … “What would your daddy think?”
