Above: “The Homecoming” by Jennie Augusta Brownscombe (1850-1936).
[Author’s note: I wrote the following story about some childhood experiences. It’s all true, though I tell it in a fictional manner.]
My father says it happened in Nashville, but my memory insists it was an interstate exit near Monroe, Louisiana. He’s probably right. After all, I was notorious among my brothers for remembering things that never happened—at least not the way I remembered them. There was the time a younger brother broke his arm at the elbow. I saw the whole thing clearly, from the driveway by the garage. Or was it from the upstairs window? In any case, he broke his elbow because an older brother let go of a rope—intentionally—while playing tug-of-war, and down the little brother went. Or did the break come from flipping his tricycle, which was being pulled too fast on the same rope by the same older brother? I apparently had a habit of mixing up storylines, and my brothers have never let me forget it.
But this event was different. Wherever it happened—Nashville or not—I remember the details like the back of my hand. Dad was driving, with Mom in the passenger seat of our old, reliable fifteen-passenger van. There were eight of us kids: seven boys and one girl, the youngest. I was the fourth-born, around ten years old, and this wasn’t the first time it had happened. In fact, it had happened three times before.
The first time, I was around five. We had taken a family trip to a theme park called Dollywood—named, of course, after Dolly Parton. As a kid, I never understood why Miss Parton was so special that an amusement park bore her name. Some kids at church said it had something to do with her hair, her voice, and other bodily features they giggled about but didn’t explain.
In any case, we had a family friend named Frank who worked at the park, and he helped get us in. It was all fun—until I somehow got separated from the group. I wandered for what felt like hours, unnoticed and increasingly unsure what to do. Then I remembered something: when we first arrived, we had asked Frank about the big walkie-talkie he carried on his belt. He told us, to our amazement, that it could reach someone up to two miles away. When I recalled that story, and when I noticed that other men were walking around the park with the same walkie-talkies, it occurred to me that I ought to ask one of them if he could use his to call Frank. I did just that, and it worked. A short time later, I was reunited with the others.
The second time was around age six, during a fun outing to one of our favorite places, Steel Creek Park. We had a day planned with the Paxtons—family friends whose two boys were best pals with my brothers and me. I came downstairs with a backpack full of toys, excited and ready, only to see the unforgettable Paxton station wagon pulling out of our driveway—with my family inside. Don’t ask me how they all fit. They were headed to the park, and I was not. I stood frozen at the window, watching them drive down the street. I don’t remember much else—only a strange third-person view, as though I were watching myself from above. At some point, realizing I’d been left behind, they turned the wagon around and came back for me.
My mother, sorrowful as could be, held me close the rest of the way and apologized profusely. I didn’t understand the fuss. I was six, after all—a big kid. Not wanting to seem frightened, I told the Paxton boys I had grabbed knives from the kitchen to protect the house while they were gone.
The third incident happened a few years later at our Southern Baptist church—where we, as preacher’s kids, spent much of our time. We were often the first to arrive and the last to leave. It was a Wednesday evening. The church was no one’s favorite place at night and the last place any of us wanted to be alone. It was big and somewhat scary, and my brothers and I had previously witnessed some strange goings-on. (That's a story for another time.)
That night, my friends and I were running through the building making mischief, as usual. One by one, they left with their families. Eventually, I was the only one left. After the last friend ran off at his mother's bidding, I made my way toward the glass door that opened to the parking lot—just in time to see my mom backing out in our van with the rest of my siblings.
It might have been smart to run toward the car, waving my arms like mad, hoping to catch her attention. For whatever reason, I just stood there, looking through the glass with my hands gripped tightly round the door handle. In no time the van pulled forward, down the hill, out of sight.
I scanned the parking lot. Not one car was left. I stood frozen at the door—until I heard a noise from another part of the building. Then I heard footsteps. My heart began to race. I saw lights flickering near the stairwell. Someone—something—was coming down the hallway. My chest tightened. I looked for options. Stay and face whatever was approaching? Or flee into the dark, empty parking lot?
Before I could choose, a figure appeared. I prepared to bolt—until I recognized my father. He had been making the rounds to lock doors and turn off lights. I ran to him and leapt into his arms, flooded with relief.
As I said, it wasn’t the first time it had happened. Now, back to the interstate. We were on our way to Texas, most likely, to visit grandparents. It was a routine stop at a gas station. When you have eight kids, everyone gets a job during a pit stop. Dad began to fill the gas tank, and the rest of the clan took advantage of the bathrooms. On this occasion, I was the waterboy. My job was simple: take the big thermos inside and politely ask the attendant if I might fill it with ice water. When the attendant said yes (they always did), I’d refill and return to the van.
I chatted with the cashier (homeschoolers tend to be better at talking to adults than to kids their own age), filled the thermos, and carried on as usual—until the attendant looked out the window.
“Hey there, sonny. Isn’t that your van pulling out?”
I turned and looked. He was right. They’ve managed to do it again, I thought.
I dropped the thermos—ice and water splashing across the tile floor—and sprinted out the doors. The van was already turning onto the highway. I ran alongside it, pounding the window, yelling. Inside, my father was shouting at the back row to stop roughhousing. Then someone cried out, “It’s Wesley! He’s outside!”
The van screeched to a halt. I stopped too, doubled over, trying to catch my breath. Back inside, my mother hugged me as if she’d suffered a cardiac event. I sat quietly, stunned, wondering how far they might have gone before anyone noticed. We drove back, I apologized to the attendant, and refilled the thermos. Then we drove off like nothing had happened.
I’m not sure what to make of the pattern—being the only one left behind so many times. I was also the only sibling to never receive music lessons. Perhaps it’s just the fate of the middle child—easy to overlook, a little different from the rest. Whatever the reason, my family never could get rid of me. And although I knew the fear of being lost, I also came to know the peculiar joy of being found.
Glad to see you. Reading now, my friend. Pax Domini sit semper vobiscum!