Confession of a Miscreant

CONFESSION OF A MISCREANT

Far away from last week as I took a trip down memory road to a different time and place.

January, 1955, a Thursday night, snowing and cold in a small town in western Ohio.  A group of 4 boys, all seniors in high school, decide to spend the night at the house of one of the four, a few miles from town in his family’s farmhouse. We were probably hoping there would be a snow day and no school on Friday.  That seldom happened although sometimes the school buses from rural areas had a hard time navigating bad weather.  As the snow continued to fall and pile up, someone among us, maybe the host, said it would be fun to hook up the large, orange tractor, probably an Allis Chalmers, to a big wooden sled and drive into town.  This escapade began around 11 PM and we were bundled up against the cold wind.

We took turns driving the tractor, and swerved around corners hoping to throw one of the 3 riders off into a snow bank.  I was driving, came around a corner and turned to avoid a parked car but the front wheels of the tractor did not turn and just skidded on through the snow.  I could not get my hand on the throttle fast enough to slow down and I crashed into the parked car at a fairly high speed.  The other three hopped off the big sled, I backed away from the accident and we sped on down the street. No one was injured.  

About a block away, we decided we had to stop and go back and face up to what we had done. We parked the tractor and sled, walked back to the house where the car was parked in front and there was not a sign that anyone had heard the crash. Unbelievable that no one heard or woke up.  This was so late at night that there were no other cars, no traffic and we took it as a sign to cover up our tracks, which we did with some large bags we had on the sled and got out of there ASAP.  Once back to the safety and warmth of the farmhouse, we agreed to take a vow of silence and say nothing to anyone. 

The next day in the local newspaper, there was a front-page story that said, “attorney’s car demolished by hit and run driver.”  Local speculators concluded a drunk driver coming out of an alleyway across from the car had hit it and left without stopping.  When we got to school on Friday there was some buzz about the accident and we joined in the surprise.  All four of us were on the basketball team and we were playing that night in a semi-final, regional tournament.  We lost.  We kept our vow of silence.

I worried through the rest of that school year whether or not the police might show up because they had some evidence that pointed to the culprits. I looked up the penalty which was a first-degree misdemeanor resulting in a big fine and points on one’s driver’s license.   However, the snow must have covered our tracks completely and there was apparently no orange paint on the wrecked car. The forensics of the small, local police department were not all that advanced.  We all went on to graduate the following May and went off to different colleges in the Fall.

Fast forward ten years to 1965.  I am 28 years old, married with two children and had returned “home” from the east coast for the Christmas holidays.  While there, I went to a party where I saw the son of the aforementioned attorney, who was himself a lawyer. He was a year older than me and after law school he joined his father and uncle’s law firm in that town.   We were having a conversation and I asked him if he remembered when his Dad’s car was demolished.  He said yes and they thought a drunk driver had done the damage and left the scene without being identified.  He said his Dad got a new car from the insurance and never parked the car on the street again.  I said I was the one who was responsible.  He looked stunned.  I said I thought that the statute of limitations for a car accident in Ohio had elapsed and I was safe from prosecution. We laughed about it, the attorney and the perp.

I told him the entire story to assuage my guilt having carried it for ten years, not a heavy burden, but there in the background with other stories of misbehavior and minor law breaking.  My friend said not to worry, all that was long gone and past, no harm done to anyone.  I thanked him, saw him a few times after that and he died in 2019. I have shared the story with a few people and some other high school friends. Our class of 1955 is planning to gather for its 70^th reunion next August, 113 remaining out of a class of 177.  Maybe 40-50 will show up.   At least one of the other perps will be there and I am hoping to see him and revisit that story and others for old times’ sake. How we survived the escapades of those adventurous years remain a mystery.