When my mother toned, “James Robert Mitchell! “YOU know better than that!” I knew.
Like the time my sister's pony ate a box of prunes I accidentally spilled into the feed box. I was sorry it happened the day before her cart driving competition. Mother found my behavior reprehensible. I think that's what she called it.
Admittedly, I have behavior issues. Even today, things happen. It’s sort of fun to be 12 years old, especially when you become 65!
Late this past summer, at our popular Hannaford, I was practicing my Maine voice with a young foreign worker. I have practiced my Maine voice with special friends like John West, Jeff Brown, Elbridge Giles, Leon Trask and his son Evered. Although their lessons were sometimes unintentional, they were always informative.
So, I landed in checkout line 4 with said foreign employee who could do magic with item scanning, but had limited language skills. And I detected an opportunity to be 12 again.
In my best practiced Maine voice I asked for a pouch of Redman* chewing tobacco and tried to indicate visually what it was. Mother's voice was beginning to ring in my ears.
When I opened up the bag of raisins (which I'd paid for) and began stuffing them into my cheek (actions speak louder than words), Miss Foreign Worker freaked. The light above the check out began to flash and red shirts migrated toward us. Two of the shift leader types recognized me and immediately left the store.
I apologized. It was a slow day.
*In central Pennsylvania where I grew up, there were many chewers of Redman chewing t'backuh. I tried it once!