Monday, January 28, 2008

1965 - Stones & Bottles

Another day soon after, with my top-lip scab still doing its reparative work, I was back on the same lunar landscape of dozens of evenly spaced and high piles of clean fill, my brother, John, and Hartmut in tow.

We were too busy smashing the bottles we’d discovered between several hillocks to see the police car roar up the dirt track and slide to a dusty stop immediately behind us. A firm blue man-mountain of a policeman leapt out, strode up and matter-of-factly demanded names, addresses and other blurred details.

Stunned, we obliged, our policeman admonishing us for making such a dangerous ‘playground’ even more dangerous because of the jagged shards of beer-bottle glass we’d produced.

Later that same afternoon, a sharp series of authoritative raps on our front door produced the same policeman who, in front of my shocked but bemused Dad, proceeded to recount our offense, and warn us in no uncertain terms never to do it again for fear of being charged.

When he’d left and Dad closed the door gently behind him, smiled briefly, but never said a word.

I never smashed another bottle in a public place.


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