THE DAY I WENT MISSING

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/uk_news/scotland/2531509.stm Making the news this weekend was the story of a 5 year old boy on his very first trip to Glasgow with his family. In the midst of shopping, he got separated from the family. Not surprisingly, they were frantic with worry, wondering where he’d disappeared to.

Thankfully, this missing child case had a happy ending–the little boy was found after stepping off a train in Macclesfield–more than 200 miles away from Glasgow, and well into English territory. It later emerged that once the boy realized he was lost, he figured that going back the way he’d come in was the best way to get unlost – the only problem being that instead of hopping on a southbound train home, he got onto a train bound for Reading, thus throwing his journey far off-course.

As I’ve said before, I’ve spent far too many years paying attention to the plight of missing children, wondering what their fates were, what the meager stories hid in terms of clues to their whereabouts–or as in many cases, where the bodies might be buried and who the killers were. But this case in particular struck a chord because it bears a real similarity to a few hours in my own life.

I was four years old, getting ready for junior kindergarten. I don’t remember if it was the first day of school, but it certainly was the first time I’d ever gotten the chance to take the bus to school all by myself. My mother made sure I had my coat and bag and walked me out of the condominium complex my family and I lived in at the time to the nearby bus stop. There, with all the other children bound for Hawthorne Public School, my mother and I waited for the yellow school bus. When it finally showed up, I climbed the steps up–just like all the other children–and heard my mother yell something, probably to have a good time, to be careful, and that she loved me, all presumably spoken in Yiddish, which was the language she used far more often in speaking to me when I was little. I waved goodbye and found a seat on the bus.

I was probably nervous and a little scared, being that this was the first time I’d been on a school bus, let alone by myself. I was probably sitting next to another apprehensive little boy or girl, but to be honest, I don’t remember the ride to school. It, by comparison to the ride back, was fairly uneventful.

As was the school day itself. I do have very happy memories of junior kindergarten; I’d been kind of a restless, bordering-on-wild child, probably borne out of impatience and boredom–character flaws that still afflict me. Whenever my mother would take me with her to pick up my older brother from school, I’d run in and start looking around the classroom, and pitch fits if my mother tried to remove me from the premises. Early forays into nursery school weren’t much better, as I insisted that a parent be present the entire time. It was strange, because though my mom or dad were there, I’d ignore them completely and do my own thing. But the minute either stepped out of the room – I’d go ballistic. I suppose it was some kind of security blanket for me.

But in my JK year, I had one of the best educators a little girl could ever have, Mrs. McWhinnie. I know she retired ages ago and I hope she’s still alive somewhere, but whatever the case, she saved my pre-school self, recognizing that I was a smart kid who already knew how to read, and thus could help out my classmates. It was a mentoring system she used for all the smart children in the class, and it worked beautifully. And I got to be a hell of a lot calmer.

So I figure I had one of my typical days – learning numbers, eating snacks and drinking milk, singing songs, and of course, naptime. Then, when the day was over, I got back onto the yellow school bus, feeling a little more confident. After all, it was just going to take me right back home.

Except I made a mistake – I got off a stop too early. As I recall, I had made friends with an older girl – probably in first or second grade, but all my four-year-old self recollects is that she was a “Big Kid” (as anyone post-kindergarten was). So when she got off the bus, I followed her. I guess we ended up at her house and it suddenly realized that my own house was nowhere near hers.

So I started to cry. The older girl took me inside, found her mother, and they fed me milk and cookies and tried to figure out what to do.

Meanwhile, my mother was waiting for me at the bus stop near my house. All the other little girls and boys decamped from the bus, but not me. Being a mother, and a worrier by nature, she freaked out and started panicking. Her daughter wasn’t on the school bus. Where was she? Suddenly, I was a missing child.

The bus drove off but not before she chased after it, tracking the school bus driver down. He told her I’d gotten off a stop earlier. A bit more chasing and questioning finally led her to the house of my friend. By then I had completely calmed down. I had food, after all–the easiest balm for a crying child, especially one who loved (and still loves) eating. Once the worry subsided and she saw I was OK, she took me into the car, drove me home, and then started getting upset and telling me that I shouldn’t have followed that girl home.

But on the other hand, who knows what bus stop I would have gotten off at? In my mind, I was lost.

Suffice it to say, I didn’t take the bus alone for the rest of that school year, as my mother decided that my nanny had best accompany me to and fro. And I have a sneaking suspicion that my mother has never forgotten the incident, either. For good reason.

As for me, I’m starting to wonder how much of a root cause it was in my career choice. But I guess I’ll never know for sure.

Still, when I have kids, when they go off to pre-school, I’m giving them as simply detailed instructions as possible. Or maybe I’ll just drive them there.

Sarah Weinman
1 December 2002