When I was a teenager we moved from Pennsylvania to South Carolina. One of the first friends that we met at our church was a man named George.
He was a nice man who managed the grocery store about a mile from our house. The grocery store was part of a popular chain of stores across the United States in the '70s. George seemed to be a good manager, and his employees really liked him.
I felt rather sorry for George. He had an older son that no one ever saw, a chubby teenage daughter, and an obese wife who was a shrew. She had an abrasive personality.
Anyway, this man constantly brought us gifts from his grocery store. To tell the truth, the gifts were for my mother, and deep down, I think he had a crush on her. My mother was petite, pretty, and very talented, unlike his wife.
Quite often George would show up at our house with a turkey, a ham, and other food items. Once he showed up with a small barbecue grill for my dad. But the best gift he ever brought to our home was a spice rack.
Now, this wasn't just any spice rack. This was a Cadillac spice rack. It was made of oak, and had three shelves. This thing was large and meant to be attached to the kitchen wall. While the rack itself was beautifully carved, it was what was inside that was so amazing.
The rack was lined on all three shelves with beautiful glass bottles filled with different spices for cooking, and each bottle was clearly labeled with the name of the spice.
My mother was overjoyed to say the least. She loved that ridiculous spice rack to death. She always loved to cook and to have all these different spices available meant that she could be more creative with the ethnic dishes she loved to serve.
I drew the line, however, with the rosemary in my sweet peas.
So time went by, my mother enjoyed her spice rack, and George continued to bring food items to the house.
One day we had a terrible shock.
A friend called us and asked if we had read the newspaper yet. Daddy said no he hadn't, but he would immediately.
He ran to the living room, picked up the rolled up newspaper and flattened it on the kitchen table.
There, on the front page, was a picture of George. We all stared in disbelief at his picture and then our eyes moved to the headline..."Arrested for Embezzlement"!
What? Our dear friend arrested for embezzling at the grocery store that he managed? This couldn't be true! This had to be a mistake!
No, it was true all right. The more we read in the paper, the more information came to light. He was guilty all right.
Evidently, he'd been stealing from the grocery store for years and the auditors for the chain of stores finally figured it out.
This was terrible! I immediately felt sorry for his teenage daughter, and I even felt sorry for his mean old wife. I was also sorry for our church because he held a position of authority there. This was just a mess!
But suddenly, The same thought crossed all of our minds as we stood there staring at the newspaper. And at the same time, we all slowly turned our heads and stared at the spice rack on the wall.
For a moment we just stared at it. Then I heard a gasp, and we turned to look at my mother who had her hands over her mouth.
"I have stolen merchandise in my house!" she said frantically. "What are we going to do?"
Silently, we all stood there staring at the spice rack. Then I spoke up.
You have to understand that I was a teenager and didn't consider myself as "holy" as my pastor father and cultured mother. I was a realist and in many ways, more worldly and practical.
I spoke up. "Well it seems to me that what they don't know won't hurt us. You don't need to tell anyone about that spice rack. Yes, it probably is a stolen spice rack, but if you returned it, who would you give it to? And would you be charged for the amount of spices you've already used? I would forget about it and forget where it came from."
For once my parents looked at me rather hopefully. Then they looked at each other and nodded their heads.
So it was all agreed, we would tell no one about the spice rack.
But a few years later, the spice rack disappeared, and the spices went into the cabinet. I don't think my mother could bear having the evil stolen spice rack stare down at her from the wall any longer.
You know, it is rather funny how memories will stay with you all your life.
To this day, every time I go into the grocery store and see spices in glass jars with green labels, I think of the spice rack and look over my shoulder to be sure I'm not being followed by the FBI.
