My life of crime began, as I remember, on a summer day in 1950, when I was 9 years old. I was in the J.J. Newberryâs five-and-dime store in Ephrata.
The overhead fans were whirling slowly, the rough wooden floors were creaking. Merchandise, much of it actually in the nickel-and-dime price range, was arrayed in rows, about chest height for a 9-year-old.
The rows were separated by glass dividers. The rows had things like penny candy, razors, bobby pins, sewing thread, needles â things that used to be called notions at a time when people knew what ânotionsâ were.
There was a row of pocket knives. At just a dime, they were a steal.