Clods of dirt broke glass and rules

You always remember the first time you get in real trouble.

Those are the lessons you never forget.

My first came when I was about 6 years old. I was a first grader at Judge Haynes Elementary School and had been pretty much staying out of trouble.

But when warm weather hit, there were temptations.

That year, I tended to ride to school on the back of Dan Cox’s 20-inch bike. He was a distinguished and sophisticated third grade student by that time, and the bike was probably already too small for him.

But as a passenger, sitting on some sort of rack over the rear tire, I found it acceptable.

Except for the potholes.

On at least one occasion, I was bounced completely off the bike when we encountered a crater in an alley.

I was talking at the time — of course — and in mid-sentence was sent flying, landing on my hip pockets in the cinders.

But it was still the easiest and most agreeable method of transportation.

So when Dan suggested — one summer day after first grade — that we make the trek to Hamma’s grocery store for some completely forgotten special item, I said, “Sure.”

That’s what you say when you’re getting a free ride to school in first grade on the back of another kid’s bike. You say, “Sure,” to pretty much whatever the question is.

My problem was that I had no idea of distance. I’d been to Hamma’s numerous times with my mom. But was it two blocks away? Or was it across town? I had no clue.

It was across town. And not only that, our journey there involved Dan steering the little 20-inch bike — passenger and all — down U.S. 27.

The very thought would have made my parents choke. And they did their best to express their displeasure when I happened to divulge details of our adventure.

The second instance came about a year later.

Don Starr and I were second grade students. We were buddies. (Still are.)

Inevitably we’d make the trip home from school together.

First, north on Western Avenue, past Arch, past Race, then a stop at Cash’s neighborhood grocery store for penny candy if we had any pennies.

Then we’d cut east down an alley between Race and North.

And that is precisely where we got in trouble.

There was some sort of construction going on. It looked like an old garage or barn was being torn down. And there was one of those dirt piles that’s particularly enticing to second graders.

It seemed only to make sense that we should climb the dirt pile, grab clumps of dirt and bits of rock, and throw them at the old garage.

What else could those items be there for? They were like an artist’s palette awaiting a couple of young dirt-ball artists.

So we tossed. We heaved grenades over enemy lines. We threw touchdown passes.

And, it seems, we broke a few windows.

Trouble is, the garage wasn’t slated for demolition. And the owner was none too happy about the broken windows.

It didn’t take much in the way of detective work for the school to figure out whom to call on the carpet. After all, it’s a small town and how many kids walk down that particular alley?

Law and order had us nailed.

I don’t recall that we had to pay for the broken windows. Our guilt in the incident was a little fuzzy since the dirt pile had been there for weeks.

But we did have to knock on the door and apologize. And that’s something you never forget.