This is an embarrassing, yet true story.

            When you’re a kid, a poor kid, it’s painful to walk through stores and see all the wonders on display, things you’d dearly love to have, but know that you can’t.

At young ages, you have little concept about money, what it takes to get it and how quickly it’s spent. You might have heard your parents arguing about the costs of things, or about bills, or about how they’re going to pay the rent.

It isn’t until you’re much older that you discover exactly how much money is needed to house and feed yourself, let alone buy thrills like a piece of costume jewelry of a new pair of jeans.

What you do understand is that there are things you can’t have.

            Even now, all these years later, I still recall how wide my eyes felt whenever I saw a stuffed animal I’d love to cuddle or a pretty dress with lace and ribbons that would have been perfect for church.

I remember being a little sneak. As soon as I knew my parents weren’t watching, I’d sneak in a touch. Sometimes that little bit would be satisfying enough until the next time.

When I started school, I realized there was a difference between my clothes and those of my peers: between my battered lunch box and the shiny ones my peers carried. Even between what was inside those boxes opened my eyes to the possibilities out there in the world.

It would never have crossed my mind to take something that wasn’t mine. In no way would I have reached into someone’s lunch box and helped myself to the chocolate chip cookies inside. Or taken my neighbor’s brand-new pencil.

I’d learned in catechism that stealing was a sin, as was jealousy and envy.

I never took toys from my siblings or raided my mother’s purse, in fact, I’d never even contemplated it. I understood that such behavior was unacceptable and if I did do those things, I’d be severely punished.

            There were times when I wanted something so badly that the yearning was all-consuming: it dominated my thinking, making concentrating on anything else nearly impossible.

            My mother’s favorite store, when we still lived in Ohio, was what she called the five-and-dime. It was an all-purpose store that sold everything from deodorant to fabrics to toys to books. It’s shelves were always stocked full, from top to bottom, with colorful doodads and whirligigs, wonderful to behold.

            My sister’s birthday was approaching. My mom wanted to decorate her cake in some special way. Off we went to the store, and quickly arrived in the cake decorating aisle. My eyes were drawn to the paper umbrellas. They were at my eye-level, arranged neatly in a bin. All were opened, showing off their beautiful pastel colors and wooden stick bodies.

They called to me, telling me to pick them up. To take at least one home. More than once my fingers reached out, but then I’d draw them back. I did this over and over, hoping my mother would see my desire and tell me to choose the one I wanted the most.

I grew bold, picked one out, held it up to my mother and asked her to buy it for me. I hoped for a “Why, yes, my darling daughter,” but half-expected a glower. What I should have seen coming was a sharp slap, a slap so hard that it sent my hand flying backwards.

            Normally that would have been enough to chase away that desire, but it only served to increase it to a fever pitch. I could not turn away even when I tried. I couldn’t fight off the feeling that the umbrella wanted me to take it home. All I wanted was one, just one, of any color.

            It was taking my mother a long time to select the things she needed, which meant I stood in front of that display for a long, long time.

When my mom denied my request, I told myself that the store owner would want me to have it. In fact, that if the owner knew how badly I wanted it and knew that there was no money to buy a little girl something so pretty, so tiny, the owner would walk over and tell me to choose my favorite to take home.

            I’d convinced myself that I deserved a treat, that it was meant to be mine. And so when my mother turned and walked away, I stuffed the pink umbrella in the pocket of my shorts, hoping that its tiny sticks didn’t break.

            I was so happy that it was hard not to skip through the store. But as time passed, the reality of what I’d done set in. My hands trembled, my eyes filled with tears and my heart beat thumpity-thump.

I reached into my pocket just to check that it was still there. I “willed” my mother to return to the cake decorating aisle so I could put it back, but she went straight to the cash register.

            The store owner looked at me and smiled. My eyes flew to the floor as heat blossomed on my cheeks. Even when he offered me a lollipop, I couldn’t look at him because I thought he’d be able to see the guilt in my eyes.

My mother chitchatted a bit while her purchases were rung up. They were put in a small brown bag, and then we went to the car.

            I’d seen enough television shows to expect alarm bells and police coming to arrest me. While none of that happened, a part of me wanted it to.

            Instead, I sat in the back seat of the car, waiting for the words of disapproval, but they didn’t come. Nothing was said when we got home and I didn’t even have to help unpack the bag.

It wasn’t until hours later, when my mom walked into my room and saw my playing with the umbrella, that anything was said.

            She didn’t spank me, but she did take the umbrella away with an angry look on her face.

            When my dad came home from work, my mom confronted him at the door, holding up the umbrella. She told him I was a thief. She was right, but it stung to hear the accusation.

He immediately removed his belt and repeatedly struck me on my backside. Over and over he hit me until I was sure that it must have turned bright red.

It hurt to sit down for many days.

            It was a long drive, so we normally only went when necessary. Therefor I was surprised when the very next day my mom drove into town, parked in front of the store, and escorted me to the counter. She stood there as I confessed, arms crossed over her chest and an indignant look on her face.

            The owner didn’t want the umbrella back, which made me happy and grateful. My mother, however, was not pleased. She begged the owner to take the umbrella, which was now a bit wrinkled, or, if he refused, to call the police.

The man smiled at me, shook his head, then asked us to leave. My mother pushed me out of the store, lecturing about how I had embarrassed her and that I was lucky that the owner was not going to press charges.

            You’d think that I’d learned an important lesson and that my life of crime had ended.

Not so.

When school resumed in September my mother signed me up for a Brownie Girl Scout troop that was meeting after school. This worked out for her as my brother was playing football for the first time.

I’d be busy doing Brownie things while my mother watched my brother’s practices.

I never understood why I was a Brownie for I’d never asked to be one. Only the popular girls belonged, all wearing the brown uniforms to school on meeting days.

Not a one of them ever spoke to me except to make fun of my old-fashioned faded blue jumper.

Years later I figured out why: they probably hoped I’d develop morals or that, since I was socially awkward, that I’d learn to belong.

            Things went fairly well the first few meetings. I’d do whatever the adults told me to, but always alone. When it was necessary to partner-up, an adult would have to be mine. If I needed help with a project, the mothers were too busy, as the other girls needed them more.

Week after week, I followed the Brownies to the meeting room, them in fancy uniforms, me in my school jumper. It was obvious I didn’t belong.

 I’d begged to quit, but my mother refused, saying it would be good for me.

I don’t recall why a leader brought out a huge bag of brightly colored rubber bands. Even now, I have no idea what kind of project would involve decorating with different colors of bands. What I did know was that I wanted them. Not just the two we were supposed to use, but the entire bag.

            I was transfixed by the myriad of colors inside that bag, each one calling my name. Over and over I heard the bands, begging me to take them home.

            I still remembered the umbrella incident, not so much the embarrassment of facing the store owner, but the pain of the beating. I moved a chair or two away, far enough that I couldn’t reach out and touch them.

Distance didn’t lesson the call. In fact, the opposite happened. There was an aching hollow in my chest, a hole that could only be filled by that bag of bands. All I could think about was what it would feel like to own them.

            My project wasn’t finished when it was time to clean up. The leader said I could take two bands home with me in case one of mine broke. I lingered around the table while the other girls put away the various things we’d used during the meeting.

Knowing that they were busy, that no one was looking at me, I reached for the bag, hoping someone would see me and stop me from doing what I knew I was going to do.

Because it didn’t happen, I saw it as a sign. A miracle. Those rubber bands were supposed to go be mine. I picked up the bag and walked toward the tub where all supplies were kept. But, the closer I got, the harder my heart beat until I was struggling to breathe.

            At the last minute, instead of dropping them into the container, I turned around and went to my school bag. I slid the package in with my homework, zipped it closed, then stood by the door waiting to leave.

            I knew I had done wrong and so I expected to be caught, by either my leader or by my mother. Neither happened and so I got the rubber bands all the way home and into my bedroom without notice.

            Time passed and the bag was never found, never discussed. Every time the phone rang, I expected it to be a leader, telling my mother what I had done.

The phone rang several times, but all I heard was me being uninvited, that I could never return to the Brownies.

Was it worth it? Well, yes and no. While I never derived any pleasure from the rubber bands, which had been my hope, I no longer had to share space with girls who despised me.

            Eventually I stuffed the bag in the huge garbage can outside.

            There were times when I wanted something as passionately as before, but the threat of being caught and disciplined was too much.

            Whenever something called my name, I forced myself to walk away.

I might not have been the best student academically, I wasn’t as intelligent as either of my siblings, but in this case, I learned my lesson so well that I never stole again.