A Moment of Mischief

Snow white and shiny in the midday sun, the porcelain insulator cap atop the towering utility pole made an irresistible target for a bored twelve-year-old on that broiling afternoon in the arid Arizona summer of 1962. But there I was, all coiled to strike, never thinking for even a moment what terror that enticing cap would usher into my life.

Leisurely kicking up the dust as I ambled across the vacant lot adjacent our Phoenix home, I sought any kind of diversion from the otherwise ordinary day. Having an innate propensity for throwing things (baseballs, sticks, dirt clods), I began eyeing a telephone pole next to a church at the edge of the lot. The sparkling cap caught my curious gaze, leading me to ponder, "Umm! Wonder if I could hit that?" The temptation grabbed the better of me, as I then searched for my possible projectile. Naturally, for a feat such as this, only a smooth spheroid would suffice. So, all around me I sought that perfect geological specimen to propel into the afternoon sky.

Just seconds later I spotted my weapon of destruction, planted it securely into my right hand, wound up to deliver my fastball-down-the-middle, and fired away. To my sudden surprise, I actually struck the cap dead center, shattering it into a million fragments. Even though I took pride in hitting my target, the thought finally hit home: What have I done?! As my heart began to race, I visualized an entire neighborhood suddenly losing its electrical power...I mean lights, telephones, washing machines, televisions...everything! All because ofme.

Reacting as any goofy adolescent would, I left a cloud of dust as I sprinted home, certain that Salt River Project (local electric company), AT&T, and the police department would be out in full force for the dastardly demon who had caused this community calamity. Yet the grimmest prospect of all loomed most frighteningly on my horizon: Dad!!

Rushing through the front door at NASCAR speed, I headed to the basement to begin my vigil. Closing the curtains on all the ground-level windows, I stewed in a nervous sweat, conjuring up all that assuredly would befall me soon: ridicule by neighbors for being such a dork, time in juvenile jail, and worst of all, the fury of my father.

There I ensconced myself, pacing periodically, and peeking out the windows, a routine I repeated anxiously, anticipating the sound of police cars, the appearance of utility trucks, and finally the death knell itself from atop the stairs, "John Howard Eastham, get up here this instant!!"

So, I just sat. Waited. Anticipated. But it never came. No howling police sirens, no utility workers, not even any neighbors banging on our door. And strangest of all, when my dad arrived home from work late that afternoon, he affably inquired from the hallway, "Have a nice day, Son?" Exhaling in relief, as well as disbelief, I realized my adolescent act had not produced the catastrophe I had been sure it would. All was well, Dad was reading his paper, and no one was any the lesser for what I had done in my moment of mischief.