Over the years my escapades often landed me in trouble, usually with my parents early on, and later with school teachers, overzealous members of the clergy, and at various levels, several governments, including our own.

I sabotaged the professional as well as the personal life of one first officer by forging letters and altering logbooks after he almost got us killed the second time. That didn’t bother me for very long because he was not fired but promoted to captain and got his own boat and a fresh crew to endanger and remarried into a moneyed family, thus clarifying the old adage that incompetence will always be rewarded.

There were other episodes that gave me pause with regard to my flawed and undeveloped conscience but I’ll save those for a later time when most of the witnesses are dead or too old to testify or retaliate.

This is about apology and closure for a most dastardly deed I committed while our blockade runner boat was undergoing an overhaul in the late 1970s and I had a six week standdown which I spent on the farm reacquainting myself with the family. This was about the time the lid was being blown off the Iran-Contra Affair which would soon make our occupational sideline unprofitable. It was also about the time that the family dog had a huge proliferation of black and furry mixed breed puppies.

The cute little mongrels were born under my insomniac Mother’s bedroom (under the house) and immediately got on her bad side, whimpering and whining all the way through the weaning stage and otherwise getting her dander up.

When I made landfall that hot August, they had graduated to her flower beds, creating havoc and mayhem amongst her pet projects. That was the day the last straw hit the camel’s back.

“Those dogs have got to go,” she said. “I don’t care if you put stamps on ‘em and mail ‘em to your in-laws or drown them in the Coldwater River. If you don’t do it I’ll call Red. He’ll get it done.”

And she was right. Red had worked for the family since my grandfather’s day and would have gladly drowned ME. And in the Coldwater if Mama asked him to.

Well, I collected the five puppies that were left and headed up to the bridge at Sledge, not to drown the puppies but because it was a peaceful place to think.

Now, if I didn’t know much about getting rid of puppies, I did know it was easier to think peacefully on a river bank if you have a few beverages iced down in a cooler. While you think.

Since Mrs. Mathews’ store was on the way to the river I decided to stop and restock the ice box. It was the second best idea I had that day. Things started looking up the moment I turned into the parking lot. There was a large, middle-aged lady laboriously getting out of a station wagon that was carrying, in addition to herself, four first and second grade children.

I cautiously waited until the lady was safely inside the store and crept my Jeep up beside the carload of children.

Holding up the fattest and fuzziest of the litter, I addressed the group: ”Lookie here what I got.”

“Oooh,” they chorused as one.

“A puhpee, oooh.”

“I want him.”

“No, let me have it.”

To quiet the growing clamor lest it get out of hand, I told them, “Now, don’t y’all argue. I have one for everybody.” (Generosity is one of my faults.)

There was a shaky moment when one of the older children said, “What’s Granny gonna say ‘bout these dogs?”

But I fixed that quick, bringing up the last lucky hound.

“I’ve got one for Granny, too!”

That’s when I had my number one best idea of that day: break camp.

So the river flowed puppyless southward. Pink tongues licked candied lips and Granny, I’m sure, cussed me like a sailor.

To you, Madam, I apologize. You surely had your plate full before I intervened and now I belatedly beg your forgiveness. Forgiveness, not pardon, because I’m not sure that even the governor could grant pardon for such a dastardly deed.

Only you and God can ease my conscience. While I’m sure He will, I will not blame you for issuing my ticket to purgatory. In those days I was innocent of grandchildren and did not realize the magnitude of my crime.

Forgive me,

Ricky Harpole
(Contact Harpole at www.facebook.com/harpolive or www.colespointrecords.com)