“Hold it right there!”
When the blonde-haired minister descended the basement steps in the recently vacated rental property behind the colossal red-brick building, adorned with stained-glass windows, he issued a stern command. Clutching a baseball bat, he spotted two teenage boys — fresh from a heated argument — scrambling for escape through a high-level window.
“Climb down from there this instant,” Dad demanded, yanking one of the young men off a laundry folding table. “Care to explain why you’re unlawfully breaking and entering into this house?”
Cornered, the would-be juvenile delinquents froze, eyes wide, staring at the man of the cloth like deer in headlights.
“Aren’t you the Collier boys?” the Bible scholar asked, a look of revelation splashed across his face. “You and your parents just moved out of this place last week — so what reason could you possibly have for coming back and risking a potential arrest charge?”
“What are you looking at?” he continued, his gaze following theirs to a collection of potted plants arranged in neat rows on three-tiered benches along the side wall of the basement — hidden beneath the towering two-story colonial.
Now it was the tall clergyman’s turn to go bug-eyed — his jaw nearly hitting the cement floor.
To the local pastor’s dismay, an underground garden of marijuana plants — apparently belonging to the long-haired burnouts — thrived in the depths of their former abode.
“Don’t even think about running — the police are on their way as we speak,” the reverend declared, his voice commanding as police sirens wailed in the distance.
Less than a week after returning home from Kid’s Camp in Indiana County, Dad had to chase a gang of burnouts off the uninhabited church property on Orchard Avenue, next to the Jones’ residence. It happened right after the midweek service — the day after my fourteenth birthday.
Two days before leaving for the faith-based church camp, the Duncannon native was forced to issue the Collier family an eviction notice — a last resort. They had until the final day of July to vacate the premises or face criminal prosecution in a court of law for failure to pay rent.
From his church office window, the former high school quarterback-turned-preacher watched in disbelief as two hoodlums snapped the padlock on the main entrance to the house in question.
It seemed like the one-time gridiron baller had swapped his dress shoes for cleats as he tore down the steps behind the sanctuary platform, darted out the church’s back door, and sprinted past the four-foot swimming pool toward the Cape Cod-style dwelling next door.
“Dial 9-1-1,” the blond-haired minister commanded, stealing a glance at his wife as he dashed through the kitchen. “After chasing off several burnouts lurking around the empty house behind the church the other day, I just spotted two of them breaking in through the front door.”
“Tell the dispatcher there’s a burglary in progress at 427 Orchard Avenue — and make sure they come with sirens blaring,” he continued, reappearing from the entryway with a baseball bat as the dark-haired brunette dialed emergency services.
“And what, pray tell, do you plan on doing with that?”
“There’s no need to worry,” the father of four assured the frantic woman before pulling a Houdini-style disappearing act. “It’s just a scare tactic for the teenage ruffians rummaging around next door.”
Standing at the bottom of the enclosed L-shaped staircase, I caught every word of my parents’ grave conversation — and I knew something monumental was about to go down.
There was only one thing to do — call my boon companions, Robert “Robbie” G. Brough Jr. and Robert “Magsy” Magnifico, and tell them to hightail it over to my house right away.
Immediately after the tall, slender woman finished calling local law enforcement, I slipped into my folks’ bedroom and dialed Robbie’s number on the rotary phone.
Since the two Robs were at the Riverside administrator’s house near Ewing Park, they met me on their bikes outside our two-car garage just as a couple of squad cars arrived at the scene of the suspected crime.
These three would-be detectives furiously pedaled their two-wheelers through the alley, weaving around the back side of the quarter city block to get a bird’s-eye view of the unfolding chaos on Orchard Avenue.
Within minutes of the officers entering the wood-framed structure, two young men — shackled in handcuffs — were led out and placed separately into the back of police cruisers.
“That’s definitely the Collier boys,” Magsy confirmed, looking through the pair of binoculars strapped around his neck. “They’ve been nothing but trouble for my dad and the department ever since they dropped out of school last year.”
“Did you say the Collier brothers?” I quipped, taking the field glasses to get a better look. “They were living in that house with their parents until last week — forced to move out after falling three months behind on rent.”
“Besides breaking and entering,” Robbie chimed in, peering through the miniature telescope. “Looks like there’s another solid reason for the arrests — those sure resemble reefer plants.”
“You’ve got a good eye — that’s exactly what they are. And I don’t even need binoculars to see it,” the youngest son of the police chief deduced, watching as patrolmen secured the potted cannabis in the trunks of the makeshift paddy wagons.
“Jumping Jehoshaphat,” I exclaimed. “I can just see the headline in tomorrow’s Ellwood City Ledger now — Drugs found in church rental property.”
“Forget the local newspaper,” the amiable redhead interjected, “this will probably make the six o’clock news, so we need to stick around just in case the television news cameras show up.”
We were right on both counts, because it wasn’t more than thirty minutes later when the separate media outlets showed up to interview eyewitnesses to the alleged crime.
Eating cheeseburgers and french fries in the basement of the church parsonage a few hours later, these members of Trinity Detective Agency had their fifteen minutes of fame when they watched themselves on the boob tube.
Recalling the day my little sisters, their friend, and I looted the abandoned house up the street, I cringed at the thought of spending time in a six-by-eight-foot cell alongside either one of the Collier brothers at a juvenile detention center.
I breathed a sigh of relief, grateful that the house’s owner hadn’t pressed charges that day — otherwise, I would’ve ended up arrested right alongside those burnouts.
I’m just grateful that everyone involved — including myself — kept quiet about that shameful act. I couldn’t bear the thought of what my closest friends would think of me if they ever found out.
Shh… mum’s the word.