Jack Stallard

Editor’s note: This column was first published June 11, 2022.

A Facebook memory recently popped up featuring a photo of the house I lived in between the ages of 4 and 11.

The house seemed huge back then, but looked tiny in the photo. It was a house, and yard and front porch that instantly brought back a ton of memories — good and bad.

The good memories were too many to count.

The yard was a baseball, football and bike-riding paradise. It was a place where the only dangers were a knot on the head from a wayward fastball, an occasional concussion from an overzealous linebacker or a broken bone from the bike wrecks that inevitably happened when 15 neighborhood stuntman or stuntwoman wannabes gathered to show off their skills.

I don’t know if we were tougher back then, but we shook off those injuries and kept playing. Maybe it was because we had parents who believed part of growing up was surviving near-death experiences.

That’s probably why some of my neighbors were only children. Eventually.

The front porch was where we ate watermelon or peaches until our stomachs hurt, discussed the day’s adventures and injuries or just hung out at night watching “lightning bugs” while gazing at the stars.

But, looking closely at that old photo, I noticed an old nemesis — a rose bush — glaring at me from the right side of the porch.

The rose bush was mom’s pride and joy, and somehow it thrived and became the envy of the neighborhood despite the daily onslaught of kids who trampled every other inch of our yard.

One sunny Saturday morning as me and my siblings prepared to head out the door to put our guardian angels to the test, mom summoned us all to the front porch. The rose bush was damaged beyond repair, and nearby was the Louisville Slugger baseball bat I had gotten for Christmas just a few months earlier.

That immediately made me the prime suspect, but I was convincing enough in my denial that mom sent six of the seven kids (2-year-old Donna was immediately cleared of the crime) to a small, cramped back bedroom and told us we were not coming out until the guilty party came forward.

Older siblings Gary and Janet immediately took charge of the inquest, but as the minutes turned into hours and we realized our Saturday was slipping away while our friends were all out playing baseball, riding bikes or damming up the nearby creek, things took an ugly turn.

Accusations flew. Conspiracy theories were hatched, and alliances were formed. The baseball bat at the scene of the crime didn’t help my case, but I stood steadfast in proclaiming my innocence until one of the siblings finally turned to me and said, “Even if you didn’t do it, just go ahead and say you did. You’ll get a spanking, but you’re tough, and then it’ll be over and we can all go out and play.”

I’ve never been accused of being the smartest of my siblings, and the opportunity to be the hero who salvaged what was left of our Saturday overcame me, so I marched into the living room and said, “Mom. I did it. I broke the rose bush. I’m truly sorry, and I’m ready to face my punishment.”

Turns out, I wasn’t ready.

The spanking had a little extra juice to it since I was a rose bush killer and a liar, but I handled that. What I didn’t expect was to be sent to my room for the rest of the day while my siblings scattered without so much as a nod of appreciation or a “thanks for taking one for the team.”

Forty-eight years later, I still don’t know who broke that dang rose bush, but I’ll go to my grave proclaiming my innocence. And, I promise if someone puts a rose on my casket, I’ll come back and haunt them.

I’m bringing my Louisville Slugger with me, too.