Cookie rookie gets a warning

A good accomplice is hard to find.

My crime took shape when I went to find Norman, one of my friends from first grade. We usually played tag or hopscotch. I could see his mother inside their house, putting fresh cookies on a plate. I really wanted one, but back in ’52, it was rude for a kid to ask for something that hadn’t been offered. I asked if Norman could play with me and our friend Mikey. But his mother told us they were leaving, so Mikey and I stood and watched as Norman’s family drove away. I was usually very shy, but suddenly I said, “Mikey, we’ve got to get those cookies.” Mikey never said much, but I could tell he didn’t like this. We went to the backyard, where a ladder sat like it was waiting for me. I managed to get it up to a window, and it stayed put. I’d never been on a ladder before, but I cautiously climbed up. I heard a loud bang! bang! I turned and saw a woman next door pounding on her window and glaring at me. As I stood there shakily at the top of the ladder, a big man in a black uniform and hat came toward me through the hedge. I knew I was in trouble. He put a hand on the rungs and asked what I was doing. I didn’t answer. Then he asked where I lived. I pointed past Mikey, in a direction I didn’t know. “Over there!” “No you don’t!” blurted Mikey. “You live right there!” He pointed over the fence at my house. The man sent Mikey home and kindly took my hand. He helped me into the back seat of his big black car and drove me around the corner to my house. That was my first and last police car ride. I’m over 70 now, and from where I sit, I have to admire that 6-year-old’s spirit. But I never did get one of those cookies.