Welcome dear readers.

Some memories don’t just tap you on the shoulder — they grab you by the collar and haul you straight back to childhood. A friend of mine recently shared one of those memories with me. It wasn’t funny at the time, but decades later it gives him a grin and a good laugh.

I asked if I could write it down. He said yes — as long as I changed the names to protect the innocent, (and especially the guilty. They know who they are.)

It all began with a magazine he wasn’t supposed to have, a mother who always knew too much, and a father stuck in the middle. Amazing how a single object can hold a whole childhood inside it. This is the story of Fiona — the day he lost her, and the day she found him again.

Finding Fiona

Back in the mid‑1960s, I am a thirteen‑year‑old boy living in a very sexually repressed household. Anything with even the faintest hint of sexuality was taboo. I came from a large family, (seven children) and times were difficult for all of us, but the rules around “decency” are ironclad. This is a memory that I often recall.

It is a mild, late‑winter Saturday in mid‑March, just shy of the Vernal Equinox, and I am out collecting for my paper route. I’ve already covered my expenses, so I have a little pocket money burning a hole in my pocket. Naturally, I head straight for the bookstore and newsstand on the corner of Tower and Belknap to see if the latest issue of MAD Magazine has arrived.

As I wander the aisles, pretending to browse the newspapers and paperbacks, I drift—very intentionally—toward the back right corner of the store. That is where the “interesting” magazines live. The forbidden ones. The ones boys my age aren’t supposed to know exist.

The store is busy, which works in my favor. If I keep my back to the counter, the clerk won’t notice me right away. I am tall for my age—already five‑foot‑nine—so I can pass for older if I don’t draw attention to myself.

Then I see her.

A beautiful redheaded woman stares back at me from the cover of a glossy magazine. Fiery curls. Laser‑green eyes. A Kelly‑green satin tuxedo jacket that leaves very little to the imagination. I have never seen anyone like her. Underneath her cover picture are the words, “Fiona’s Shamrocks Are Blooming — Come Take a Look!”

I don’t know women like that exist. I’ve been sheltered my whole life, and puberty—what my parents call “my awakening”—has only just begun. Well, I’m awake now. Wide awake.

My heart pounds. Sweat gathers on my forehead. I pace back and forth in that corner for five agonizing minutes, checking the front of the store every thirty seconds. What am I thinking? I never do anything like this ever!

Temptation gets the best of me. I know I’d get caught if I lingered too long, but I can’t tear myself away from her.

She seems to beckon me.

I reach out. I grab.

In one swift motion, the magazine disappears under my shirt. My hands shake but I force myself to stay calm. No one shouts. No one runs toward me. No one even looks up.

I’m safe. For the moment.

But I still have to get out of the store. And suddenly the distance to the door feels like a mile. Every step feels like an hour. I move inch by inch, praying the magazine doesn’t slip.

Just as I reach the last few feet—

“Hey, Greg! Oh, Greg!”

My heart nearly explodes. My bladder nearly joins it.

“The new MAD Magazine will be in tomorrow!” the clerk calls. “See you then!”

I step out into the cool lake breeze, letting it dry the sweat on my face. Under my shirt, I imagine the magazine is soaked through.

The deed is done. She is mine. My very own magazine—with a centerfold.  I heard boys talk about them before, but I’ve never seen one myself.

I’ve gotten the magazine out of the store… but now what? How am I going to get it into the house? My mother has a sixth sense for mischief. Either that, or she is simply too nosy for her own good. She seems to know what every kid in the neighborhood is up to, and she has opinions—strong ones—about every girl in my school and their mothers.

I have no plan. But during the fifteen‑minute walk home, one forms.

By the time I reach the house, I know exactly what I’m going to do.

I go through the front door instead of the back, hoping to avoid the kitchen where Mom is preparing dinner.

“I’m home, Mom!” I call, trying to sound casual. My heart thumps like a jackhammer.

I take the stairs two at a time.

“What’cha got there?” my little sister Trudy asks, appearing out of nowhere.

“Nuthin’, creep! Mind your own beeswax!”

“I’m tellin’ Mom you’re hidin’ somethin’!”

Without missing a beat, I whisper, “It’s a Mother’s Day Present, so don’t say a thing.”

I know Mother’s Day is still two months away, but my eight year old sister has no idea.

That shuts her up instantly. Then I bolt for my room.

I need a hiding place. A good one. One Mom wouldn’t find.

Also, since I share a bedroom with Fred, my older brother, it has to be hidden where he won’t stumble across it either.

My eyes land on the closet shelf—on the stack of dusty board games no one touched anymore. Monopoly, Clue, Chutes and Ladders. Perfect.

But I know my mother. If I move anything and don’t put it back exactly right, she’ll notice. She always notices. So I memorize the order, the angles, the way the boxes lean.

Mom’s voice cuts through my concentration: “Wash up and get down for supper in five minutes!”

I take one last longing look at the Irish Lass on the cover. I wish I had time to explore the pages inside, but time isn’t on my side.

Lifting the top three boxes—Monopoly, Clue, Chutes and Ladders—I consider my options.

Monopoly has too many pieces. Chutes and Ladders is too small. Then it hits me.

If I don’t want Mom to have a clue… I’d use the Clue box.

It’s perfect.

I slip the magazine under the game board, replace everything exactly as it had been, and slide the stack back onto the shelf.

Running downstairs for supper, I wonder how long it would be before I could visit MY Lass again.

At dinner, my mind is elsewhere as I imagine what’s hiding away in my closet. Even while I’m working on my homework at the table, it’s a lost cause; my thoughts keep drifting back to Fiona.

Bedtime finally comes, and I crawl into bed knowing the magazine is safely tucked away.

Just as I’m dozing off, the bedroom light blazes on. “Darn you, Fred! Can’t you ever get ready for bed in the dark?” I roll over, burying my face in the pillow as Fred’s taunts begin.

“I hear you snuck a Mother’s Day present into the house today. I wanna see it!”

“Go to bed,” I plead. “I’m tired.”

Fred, now fully aware he’s gotten my goat, snaps my behind with his belt.

“I didn’t bring anything home today, so leave me alone!” I blurt out sleepily — before realizing that’s exactly what I told Trudy earlier. To cover, I add quickly, “I was just givin’ her a hard time. Just like you’re doin’ to me now. Go to sleep, PLEASE.”

The next morning, I wake early, gobble my cereal, pack my lunch, and head off to school. But my mind isn’t in the classroom. It isn’t on math or spelling or the lunchroom noise. It is on her—the Irish Lass hidden away in my closet.

All day long, my thoughts drift. I imagine the glossy pages, the green satin jacket, and the way she seems to look right at me. I count the hours until I can get home and finally explore the magazine properly.

But when the final bell rings and the clang of it fades into nothing, something hits me.

A punch. Right in the gut.

It stops me cold in the hallway. My legs won’t move. A cold, paralyzing dread washes over me—the kind that makes my stomach drop into your shoes.

I know that feeling. I’ve only felt it twice in my life. And both times, it meant disaster.

Both times, it means my mother had found out something I’d done.

The first time was when I was six years old.

I’d gone to my friend Teddy’s house early on a Saturday morning. Dad was a trucker and on the road that weekend, and when he was gone, Mom slept in. We kids were left to fend for ourselves.

I stayed at Teddy’s house all day, never calling home. It wasn’t until 5:30 p.m. that I finally headed home.

That was when I felt it for the first time—the gut punch. The dread.

I climbed the steps to the front porch and opened the door.

Mom was awake. Dad was home. And the police were standing in the living room.

“Where were you?” Mom screamed. “Where the hell were you?”

I saw Dad talking to an officer. I heard him say, “Thank you, officer. We’ll handle it from here.”

Mom shrieked again, “Where were you?”

“At Teddy’s,” I said.

“You’re going to get it now, mister!” she snapped, glaring at me with a look I’d never seen before—pure venom. Pure rage. She whispered something to my father, pointing at me like I was a criminal.

“Get upstairs,” she ordered. “Your father will deal with you now.”

I climbed the stairs slowly, terrified. I didn’t know what was coming, but I knew it wasn’t good.

Dad entered my room a moment later, looking almost apologetic. Mom followed close behind.

“Do it,” she snapped.

“Do what?” I wondered as I sat on the bed. I was seven years old. I didn’t understand.

Dad’s voice was tight. “Get up. Stand at the foot of the bed and… take your pants off. Now turn around and bend over.”

I obeyed.

The first blow landed like fire.

WHACK . . . ! WHACK . . . ! ! WHACK . . . !!!

The pain was sharp, shocking, overwhelming.

Instinctively, I looked toward my mother for comfort.

Leaning against the dresser, watching, “Do it again,” she said. “Harder.”

That dreadful memory slams into me in the school hallway like a freight train. A cold, paralyzing dread washes over me—the kind that makes your stomach drop into your shoes.

(Even now, decades later, I can still feel that particular dread. It belonged only to her.)

I force myself to breathe. I force myself to walk home. But with every step, the dread grows.

By the time I reach the house, my stomach was in knots.

Mom greets me with a sugary, sappy “Hello,” the kind of voice she uses when she is hiding something sharp underneath. I know instantly—something is coming.          (Back then, I didn’t have the words for it. Now I know that tone meant she’d already decided I was guilty.)

I climb the stairs slowly, my legs heavy as logs soaked in the depths of Lake Superior. I cross the threshold into my room, bracing myself for the worst.

But nothing is out of place.

The bedding isn’t torn apart. The drawers aren’t dumped. The room isn’t ransacked.

My heart flutters. Maybe I am in the clear.

Or so I believe.

I open the closet.

The stack of board games look…wrong. Not dramatically wrong—but wrong enough. I know exactly how I’ve left them. I’ve lined up the first letters on the sides of the boxes perfectly.

Now they are off.

Slightly. But enough.

Mom’s been snooping. In my room. In the closet. In the box.

My hands shake as I reach up and slide the Clue box off the shelf. The weight tells me the magazine is still inside.

Maybe Mom didn’t search my room after all.

I open the box.

The magazine is there!

Good news.

But then I see it—the magazine has been flipped top‑to‑bottom.

Mom had pulled it out. Looked at it—maybe. And put it back differently.

I know I’ve been caught.

My mind races. My heart pounds. I need a plan—fast.

And I have one.

I grab the magazine, put the boxes back exactly as they’d been, and slip it under my shirt. No way am I risking the kitchen. I slip out the front door, circle around the house, and duck in through the back, heading straight down the basement steps. The kitchen door above me is shut tight—perfect. I creep down the basement steps and head straight for the skirting under the stairs. I know one of the boards is loose. A gentle push pops it out just enough for me to get a fingernail under it.

I pull it back and slide the magazine behind it.

Fiona will be safe there.

Authors Note:

Greg figured He’d outsmarted everyone — Mom, Fred, the whole universe. Fiona was tucked away in her new hideyhole, safe as a secret could be. He went back upstairs feeling ten feet tall, certain he’d pulled off the greatest heist a thirteen‑year‑old boy had ever attempted.

But childhood has a way of reminding you that nothing stays hidden forever. Come back for Part Two — things are about to get… complicated.