“I did it,” confessed the six-year-old boy. He stood pale before my husband Sandy, having tossed a rock that shattered a window in our rental car. Sandy was at the local fair in Grantsburg, Wisconsin, where we were vacationing. He was rolling out of the parking lot after the demolition derby when he was brought to a stop by the sound of shattering glass. The youngster, having confessed, now faced the wrath of his parents. The dad and Sandy swapped phone numbers. The police officer on the scene made out a report. This was big news in tiny Grantsburg, a town with a population of less than that which I encountered in The Time Warner Center Whole Foods a day after our return to New York. Cornrows stretch for miles around, and there’s a refreshing absence of commercialism in the form of chain stores and development. It’s a glimpse of a bygone America, with mom-and-pop establishments that are like a journey back in time; the local diner even serves its own house-made root beer. And you don’t want to miss the fried chicken at the Kozy Kitchen or the local cheeses and soft-serve ice cream at Burnett Dairy.
But what is the heart of a town? Its people. Enter Officer Klatt, whom Sandy dealt with when the dad of the rock-throwing lad took a powder come time to pay up. Officer Klatt took it personally. Though outside his purview–in that part of the country a crime committed by a child under the age of twelve is a civil matter–he took it upon himself to investigate and do a little arm-twisting if need be. Several days passed. He and Sandy spoke on the phone twice, Officer Klatt initiating the call each time to give an update. Meanwhile, we had contacted our insurer, figuring we had about as much chance of getting reimbursed by the parents of the young perpetrator as having a lost wallet returned in New York City. Luckily, we were covered. Then Officer Klatt phoned one last time to inform us he’d shamed the scofflaw dad into doing the right thing. The dad didn’t have the funds to reimburse us in a lump sum–repair came to around $400–so he asked if he could pay in monthly installments. At that point, since we were covered by insurance, we couldn’t in good conscience take a dime from the dad. So we asked only that he pay what he could then and there, money we then donated to the police department for their next office party. We happily raise our glasses in a toast. Cheers to Maybury–er, Grantsburg. A small town with a big heart.
