In 1985, I took a bunch of grad students from Cornell to a big meeting on conservation biology at the University of Michigan in Ann Arbor. This was the meeting where it was decided to form a scientific organization on the subject, to be called the Society for Conservation Biology. So we piled into a 9-passenger van and off we went.
My first mistake was taking the "short-cut" from Ithaca to Ann Arbor, by crossing the border into Canada and driving through Ontario, rather than the longer drive to Ohio and then turning north by staying in the U.S. all the way. When we got to the Canadian border, the border guard asked if there were any non-U.S. citizens in the van. I proudly announced that we had a German, a Costa Rican, a Venezuelan, and two Colombians. Big mistake. "Pull over. Pull over there.", the guard barked, as I parked the van near the visitor station. All the foreign students had to go inside and sing the Canadian national anthem in English or something, because it was two hours before we were back on the road again. One of the foreign students mumbled something about hoping that guy had to cross from Nicaragua into Costa Rica some day when she was on duty at that border. Get his name. I thought I heard the words "strip search" in her Latino accent.
We arrived safely in Wolverine country and attended presentations for 2-3 days. For the last evening, I had purchased tickets to attend the banquet. I had even brought a suit of clothes and planned to make a good visual impression on my comrades in the fledgling society that was being formed that week. Who knows. Maybe someday I would want to be Supreme Ruler of the organization, and those kinds of potentates never wear jeans at formal dinners. But that morning I realized I had forgotten my black dress shoes to go with my suit. All I had were tennis shoes--not potentate footwear at all. A couple of students suggested I go to a local thrift store and buy a pair of black shoes. Great idea. I went, I saw, and I purchased a pair of black leather shoes for $2 that looked very similar to what I had left at home. I attended the banquet and lived happily ever after, although I never became Supreme Ruler of anything.
But those $2 shoes never really fit. It was painful to wear them for more than a few minutes, and they looked as cheap as they were if you really examined them. So one evening on my way home from work, I dropped the shoes into one of those bins at a nearby strip mall where you can donate clothes you no longer want. I always feel good giving to those who have less than I do. But later that evening, I realized that the black shoes I was putting on were the cheap shoes I had bought in Michigan; I apparently had taken my good shoes by mistake to the Salvation Army bin and thrown them away. Yikes! Those shoes cost me $80, which was a lot of money to pay for shoes in the mid-80s. Then, the idea came to me.
The following morning at 5am, I gathered up my 9-year old son Matt and we drove to the mall, and parked in front of the bin. The slot in that bin was pretty large. And unless they emptied the bin since yesterday, my shoes should still be in there. I explained to Matt what he was looking for as I carefully lifted him up and lowered him down into that large metal container. To this day, I can hear his little voice from inside the bin saying, "Daddy, it's dark in here." At that time I wanted to say something like, "Buck up kid. You're the son of a wildlife biologist. How large could the rats in there possibly be?". Matt searched around as best he could, came up empty-handed, and I then realized that the bin was empty. Shoes gone. I hate giving things away of real value to those who have less than I do. In addition, as I was lifting Matt out of that thing, I ripped my new jacket on the edge of the bin opening. Kharma 2, DrTom 0.
I kept the $2 shoes around for a long time to remind me of this incident. I guess I thought that maybe Matt would want to wear them when he got older. And we could retell the story. And we would laugh together like fathers and sons do in the movies. Instead, all he remembers is the time that his father put him in a dark, scary can to look for something. And I feel like a child abuser. And a cheap SOB. And not like a potentate should feel at all.
