Mr. Polk’s imitation pearl pocket knife went missing, and that set off the biggest criminal investigation our neighborhood had ever seen.
Mothers who often rebuked us for being tattle tales pressured us to rat out our friends and even siblings in an effort to solve the mystery of who swiped the knife.
It’s not like there had been a break-in or an armed robbery. The knife was taken from Mr. Polk’s workshop where kids and adults came and went freely to watch him make wooden toys.
He would start with a chunk of wood, run it through some saws and other machines, then use one of his sharp knives to put the finishing touches on the cars, trains, and guns that shot rubber bands.
The workshop attached to Mr. Polk’s one car garage was never locked. Tools, knives and other things he used for his woodworking sat in cabinets and on shelves in plain sight.
Nothing was ever locked in that neighborhood. Nobody ever thought about locking doors to houses and cars, and windows usually stayed open at night to let fresh air in.
We left baseball gloves and bats in the back yard when we got through playing with them and propped our bikes against pine trees or clothesline poles for the night. We had never seen a bicycle lock.
The only time I remember spotting a police car with its lights on in that vicinity was a day or so before the knife disappeared. A guy a few grades ahead of us got in trouble for stealing a hubcap.
Stories circulated through the village that he popped the hubcap off a fancy car uptown the night before and sold it to Luttrell’s Garage for 50 cents.
We were certain when we saw all that going on that he would be sent to reform school in Monroe. We never knew anybody that went to reform school, but our parents warned us often that we could end up there if we did something wrong.
The guy who stole the hubcap never went to reform school. But we all knew how tough his dad was and figured he would have been better off in the safety of a reform school than staying at home.
Having the police come onto our street about a theft right before Mr. Polk’s knife was snatched created what seemed like a crime wave in our little part of the world.
Thinking back, the missing knife could have wrecked the whole local economy. None of us were allowed to go to the Saturday morning double feature western movies while the knife heist was under investigation.
Our parents also revoked our privileges during those few days to get fudgesicles or orange push-ups from the ice cream truck that rolled through our streets with music blaring.
We all spent a quarter every week at the Webster Theater for tickets, popcorn and cokes. Losing that income must have been a blow to Mr. Charley, who wore a gray usher uniform, took up tickets and walked around with a flashlight getting our feet off the seats.
The lady who drove the ice cream truck and took our nickels for frozen treats on hot summer days surely felt the negative economic impact of the ban on purchases imposed by our parents.
Mr. Polk sent word around that he was not really that upset about losing the fake pearl knife. He had several other pocket knives and just wanted neighborhood kids to be able to come back to his shop.
But our parents, mostly our mothers, wanted the criminal matter resolved. They came up with a plan for the guilty party or parties in the knife theft to receive clemency and forgiveness by turning the knife in to their parents.
All of the neighborhood kids were given a four-hour period on a Saturday night to return the knife and maintain their anonymity. Any punishment they got at home would remain confidential.
When we were packing my mother’s banana pudding and potato salad into the car the next morning for dinner on the grounds at church, we got word that Mr. Polk had his knife back.
We could go to the Saturday morning movies again, get popsicles and sherbet push-ups from the ice cream truck and watch Mr. Polk make wooden toys. Nobody was sent to reform school.
REPRINTED FROM THE NATCHITOCHES TIMES