The Sister We Left Behind
In the early 1970's, we did something that surely wouldn't happen today: We left my sister Mary behind at the drive-in theater.
Read about it here.
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Tom Purcell's Blog: The Sister We Left Behind
In the early 1970's, we did something that surely wouldn't happen today: We left my sister Mary behind at the drive-in theater.
Read about it here.
Oh my, this made me laugh. I'm glad I'm not the only parent who has driven off without all of the children in the car. I have four children & I once left my youngest son playing in the sandbox at home. We had a big old station wagon and I didn't miss him, just assumed all four were loaded in,but his sister asked "Where's Austin?". Thank goodness I was just at the end of our street when she said this. I felt so foolish but no harm was done, just turned around & went back & got him.
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Tom, here is an echo to your “One child left behind” story.
My Dad left my six-year-old kid brother behind one day in 1955. It was not a mistake, he did it on purpose. Here is the story:
In 1955, our family – Dad, Mom and four kids – were on a family vacation. We were driving from Chicago to Los Angeles and tried to pack in as many sights as possible. I was the older brother, and at age 13 I was assigned to ride herd on my kid brother, Paul, then six years old. Paul continually looked for – and dangit found – many, many ways to be a royal pain in the butt. One of the ways occurred at the Petrified Forest Museum.
It was a beautiful summer day in Arizona when we arrived at the museum. Lots of kids scampering over multi-hued rocks welcomed other tourists who had been cooped up too long in cars that lacked air conditioning. My family’s problem was that there was only a little time allocated to this stop: a motel beckoned down the road and Mom was a little concerned that she’d be shut out of a soft bed for the night. So we needed to get to the town and reserve rooms at a motel before suppertime.
After a short walk through the museum, Dad whistled us kids up and three of us ran to the car. Paul could be seen off in the distance merrily jumping from one boulder to another. Dad called sternly. We all could see him flinch when he heard the call but he kept on jumping. Dad honked the car horn. Paul turned and fled over the horizon.
It wasn’t the first time that Paul had tried to dictate our agenda. It also was not to be the last. But it surely was the most memorable. Dad’s face was red as a beet as he told us all to get into the car. He fired up the car engine, roared out of the parking lot and headed down the road away from the museum. I looked at my sisters and they looked at me, their faces showing a stunned look of surprise and a glint of hope – was there a chance we would be rid of the little . . . ??? No, we all knew that was not to be.
Sure enough, after five or so minutes, Dad’s face was not quite so red. We made a “U” turn and headed back to the park. As we approached the museum we noticed a small boy on the right shoulder of the road, walking backwards with his left hand out in the classical “thumbing a ride” pose, shoulders quaking as he cried. He was on the wrong side of the road but what did a six-year-old kid know about hitch-hiking? Dad pulled over behind the kid and stopped the car. Then he got out and gave the boy a welcome so warm that Paul could only stand in the back seat for a while.
Paul’s tears of anguish soon turned to tears of relief. We made town before nightfall.
Tom, I would wager that if you were to repeat that little episode today, you would spend some time in “striped sunshine” in the company of a parenting counselor. Ah, well, times have changed.
I enjoy your columns. Keep them coming!
Kim Holtorff
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