Little sins of youth

Anyone lucky enough to live over 80 years naturally spends a little extra time recalling good times, and I do that frequently because I’m surrounded by loved ones and the home Iris and I have decorated with reminders of our 54 years together; however, all recollections aren’t necessarily good. For some reason or another there are always a few other kinds that creep in.

This column is not a confession of my worst sins. That has been taken care of with the man upstairs, but there were things that seemed fairly bad at the time and no longer look worthy of severe punishment, I’m willing to share a couple.

Have recently admitted to wrongfully removing a beautiful drawing from a library book, “Lives of the Hunted,” 60 years ago, so will skip that one.

Going back to grade school days at the Flathead Mine at about 10 years of age, I shot a squirrel in a tree with my BB gun and missed. Alas, the errant shot made a small telltale hole surrounded by several cracks in the new schoolhouse window. The darn building was close to our house, and my Dad was head of the school board. I’d saved a few dollars from selling magazine subscriptions but had other plans for that fund. This was a desperate situation calling for a desperate plan.

Luckily, no one had seen “my accident,” but Dad was always checking over there, so I had to act fast. Went in the trees and shot a robin, then took the carcass and, getting close to the four-foot window, threw the dead bird as hard as possible directly at the damaged area.

It worked. There was glass, blood and feathers all around and no noticeable trace of a pellet hole. I wasn’t exactly home free, because of that always present mental ghost, “conscience.” Thankfully that faded, especially after the mine carpenter came next day and put in a new pane, tossing any possible criminal evidence in the trash.

My two kid brothers were not above joining in a little sinning themselves. While boarding in Kalispell to attend high school, I’d sometimes find a lift home on the weekends for time with the family. One Friday night after dark, I was walking through the trees near our house from my ride home on an ore truck when I heard a “psst” in the bushes.

It was brother Ritchey, who was two years younger. Asked him what was up. He said he was glad he’d caught me before I got home because he had to tell me something. He said, “Pop found our secret cigarette cache. He was pretty mad about it, so I told him it was yours because I figured he wouldn’t be as tough on you ... because you’re older.”

Ritchey’s report was not welcome news, but his psychological ploy worked, causing me to pat him on the shoulder and say, “That’s OK kid, I’ll take the rap.”

One trick my Smokejumper crew pulled on a Forest Service “ground pounder” group in the Clearwater Forest in 1952 did not cause guilt for too long, but I still think it was rather mean. We’d jumped on a small stubborn fire burning in down logs and deep roots two days before when this relief crew arrived after plodding near 18 miles uphill in 90 degree heat.

Each had packs that probably weighed over 50 pounds. They told us we were to hike out “right away” because we were needed back in Missoula. Maybe it was me who asked, “What is meant by right away?” Their leader said that order came directly from the district ranger, who said he would be waiting for us at the trailhead at 7:30.

Don’t know what evil spirit possessed me, but with mock anger, I told a ridiculous lie to those tired, sweaty, young men. “That’s not fair,” I said. “It’s only three o’clock and the plane with our scheduled ‘beer drop’ isn’t coming until five.”

The next summer, one of those ground pounders showed up in Missoula as a smokejumper trainee. Told me my nasty fib had brought grievous disappointment to him and his co-workers; however, it motivated him to join the jumpers so he could pull it on somebody else.

I wasn’t the only bad guy in my younger days.

G. George Ostrom is a national award-winning Hungry Horse News columnist. He lives in Kalispell.