In the center of the lot was a maple tree. Underneath and around the tree my brothers and I had a bottle top collection, each cap carefully implanted. The tentacles of popular brands like Pepsi and Orange Crush extended a long way.
Occasionally we found a used firecracker with a bit of powder inside. Combining several finds we fashioned small but exciting explosions. We tried smoking, too, using acorns, straws and tobacco from discards. When we got older, we purchased cement, mixed it in large coffee cans and threaded the weights on each end of a pipe. We lifted the bar bell daily, expecting our muscles to grow large and we hoped quickly.
All of this took place in the back lot. Beyond it was a swamp, always wet and seeming impenetrable; that is until the preacher from down the shore bought it. He drained the swamp, cleared the trees and dug a canal. We learned from my mother that he would soon be building homes.
The next summer there was building activity. My brother and I watched. We noticed members of the construction crew using our privy. The next day we were on the lookout. There was regular traffic.
Not wanting to deprive needy parties, but thinking we deserved recompense, we nailed a small can to the door and attached a cardboard sign asking for a penny or a nickel.
On most days we collected a small amount.
We often hid behind a pile of lumber on a neighbors property two doors away. This gave us a vantage point to see the coming and going. Over time we observed a visitor who stopped daily, but put nothing in our can. More disturbing, it was the preacher himself. This didn’t seem right.
A day or two passed while we watched, giving the man of cloth time to show that his parsimoniousness was a mistake, such as having no spare change on a particular visit. It was not a mistake; ignoring our sign was intentional.
My brother and I decided to take action. We each secured a hammer. We prepared a flat board, pounding a nail that barely protruded into each end. We cradled our board and hid behind the pile of lumber. The preacher entered in mid-morning, as we knew was his habit. We waited a full two minutes to make sure his visit was not one of those quick in and outs, and we sprang. We secured the board with a few strikes on each nail, permanently securing the privy door.
The preacher hollered. We ran.
Once inside our cottage we confessed. Our mother smiled. “Go to the porch,” was all she said.
The next day we took down the can and sign. We wondered how the preacher got away. Fearful at first, we continued to play nearby.
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