By Margaret Shumate
For the Salisbury Post
There was a slight chill in the air that beautiful Saturday afternoon ó just enough to justify a long-sleeved shirt or a thin jacket. About seven or eight friends had gathered at our clubhouse on Fisher Street. It was the fall of 1962. In those days, we mainly provided our own entertainment due to very few recreational outlets available that didn’t require money we didn’t have or transportation that we were limited on.
Larry (aka Buck, Aker or Sgt. Garcia) had brought his dad’s ’48 Chevy and Robert, his ’50 Ford. We all hopped in the two cars and headed down Bringle Ferry Road to the river to romp and play and roast wieners and marshmallows on a bonfire. The girls mostly maintained the fire while the boys, in their cutoff jeans, explored the water.
Buddy was our master prankster, and along with his sister, Patsy, was always plotting crazy tricks to play on any vulnerable available soul in our group. Just a few weeks earlier, they had put dog doo inside the dome cover of the interior light in Larry’s car. We snickered and laughed for a week before he discovered and fumigated the source of the smell.
Was he mad? No! He always came back for more and subsequently presented some paybacks of his own. We always had great fun and enjoyed our teenage years of adventures together ó even the pranks.
This particular evening, as dusk was approaching, we decided to return to our home base ó our clubhouse. The guys wanted to stop at File’s Country Store on the way home and get a snack. I was riding with Robert, my boyfriend at the time. We got into an argument somewhere between the river and the store. I was so upset with him, I informed him I would be riding the remainder of the trip with Larry’s group.
As usual, Mr. File had big slabs of meat (I called mystery meat) and cheese on display and made big fat sandwiches by request. I loved his store with its wood-burning stove and all the old-fashioned crates and containers for merchandise. He and his cronies made a picture setting complete as they sat around the stove and tackled life situations.
As I was not in a sandwich mood, I chose instead a candy bar ó a Zero, my very favorite. I made the purchase and placed the candy in my left jacket pocket. On the way out the door, I passed a wooden basket of fresh eggs. I picked up three of them and gently placed them in my other pocket. (I have long since asked and received forgiveness for this act.)
Soon, we approached and passed Robert’s car. I leaned out the window and slammed the eggs onto the driver’s side door and told Larry to step on it! We pulled in behind a church and hid until the coast was clear. I was so proud of myself I felt the need for a reward. I tore into my Zero bar. As we entered town limits, I welcomed the street lights. I was still acting somewhat smug as I glanced down at my treat. I immediately screamed for Larry to pull over and stop! My candy bar was wiggling! The half I hadn’t eaten was harboring plump white aliens. I was sick! So very sick!Now today, some 40-plus years later, I happened upon a chance meeting with Robert’s sweet mother, Mary. After long talks, she revealed to me an unknown truth. The ’50 Ford I thought was Robert’s was actually hers, and that the eggs had done some paint damage to the car.Thankfully, she has forgiven me and all is well with us. I am so happy about this, I feel like rewarding myself. Maybe I’ll have a Zero candy bar.
Maybe not!