“That’s one of those stupid things you do as a teenager” said the disc jockey on the radio. I clicked off the idiot box and clicked on my brain. It took me back to the early 1960’s when I entered teen hood. Returning from St. Paul, I decided self-entertainment reminiscing over past recollections might make the time pass quicker than listening to golden oldies. I followed the disc jockey’s line of thought and searched for memorable moments of sheer stupidity. I didn’t realize I had so many. They say confession is good for the soul and it has been forty years since stupidity reined in my brain, so here it goes.

I placed the twelve gauge shotgun shell on a fencepost with the explosive end facing away from me, just in case a lucky shot detonated it. I paced off fifty feet or so and squeezed the trigger of my favorite kid’s toy, a .22 caliber rifle. Lucky shot indeed. I felt the sting from the BB as it penetrated my vest, sweatshirt and t-shirt and stuck firmly inside my chest. My main concern was how to explain away the bullet holes in my clothes to Mom. I kept that incident a lifetime secret from my parents who really didn’t want to know how dumb of a child they had raised.

A few years later, I was driving around small-town South Dakota with my high school buddy, Warner. It was well past midnight and life was getting duller by the hour. We decided to create our own entertainment. The city campground located on the edge of the Missouri River was filled to capacity that evening as it generally was all summer long. We roared through the campgrounds screaming at the top of our lungs, “Tornando! Tornado!”

As we beat feet to the top of the hill, we watched the park light up like a Christmas tree. People rolled out of their campers peering at the dark sky, wondering what their next move should be. The still, windless night was devoid of sirens or any other sign of bad weather. The annoyed campers finally returned to bed and we realized that crying wolf was not only stupid and dangerous; it really wasn’t all that fun anyway.

I pulled another stupid immature act when I was nineteen years old and already a junior in college. I had learned plenty of schooling, but I had yet to learn any common sense.

Dakota Wesleyan University was a popular dumping spot for spoiled rich kids from the East Coast who weren’t intelligent enough to get in the schools back home. However, they had plenty of money to buy their way on to the private campus located in Mitchell, South Dakota. The Corn Palace became a favorite target for their derision as did the Midwest in general.

One evening I had packed my 1956 Chevy full of arrogant idiots and treated them to a favorite South Dakota pastime, ‘driving around’. The more bored they became, the more they hurled insults. Finally fed up with their childish behavior, I pulled an even more childish stunt. While driving through Mitchell City Park, I slammed the four barrel 265 V-8 into second gear and left the roadway. I plowed through a hedge of bushes and several flower beds. I then started spinning cookies all around neatly manicured lawns leaving a path of destruction in its wake. As I dropped off my terrified cargo back at campus, only one passenger appreciated the excitement, and he was from Wagner, South Dakota. I woke up the next day to read about the vandals who had struck the park the previous evening. I guess the reward for my hide was too small to make it worthwhile for my buddies to turn me in because the only thing that got arrested was my mental development. I actually felt some remorse for that act of stupidity, mostly for setting such a bad example for my East Coast buddies who had this strange code of ethics about never snitching to the cops. And they all acted like they belonged to the same family.

How have I redeemed myself over the years? I gave up guns several years ago, mostly to avoid shooting myself. I no longer cry wolf. I no longer harass tourists or East Coast college students and I have planted enough trees and flowers to beautify several small parks.

I still have a major confession to make, but, for now, that story will remain untold. It involved the Chief of the Department of Criminal Investigation for the State of South Dakota, a 1951 Ford, hit and run, switchblades and Benzedrine, jail, excessive bail, a half quart of whiskey and a card game. The story would take a book to tell and a lifetime to repair. Don’t even ask.