It’s a stifling hot summer day and the ’63 Volkswagon Microbus rumbles and clatters through the hills of central Pennsylvania, the breeze blowing through its open windows. The 9-passenger bus is full, and since this is 1966 and few cars have seatbelts installed, there are some kids sitting on the floor or on someone’s lap. A “child car seat” in those days was a wooden crate on which the kid would perch to better see out the roll-down windows of the typical big American sedan. I remember kids stretching out in the back window –the rear deck- of such sedans while the car careened down the highway. Ahh, those carefree, dangerous days.
But back to the story at hand. The family, including assorted cousins and my Aunt Jay, is headed to some family engagement, the exact nature of which I’ve forgotten –and I hesitate to remind my mother of this story but I do recall that rolling along, we were a fun bunch. There is animated conversation, and various old-timey road trip games are being played, like “license plates” and “sign alphabet.” A few of the passengers even attempt to nap.
It’s lunch time and instead of the on-the-run sandwiches eaten in the car or at a dusty roadside picnic area, we actually stop at one of those classic ‘60’s highway diners –you know, the kind with the neon “Air Conditioned” sign. It must be because my sweet aunt is with us. We pile out of the bus, all 10 of us, or is it12, and swarm like bees into two booths that run down the side of the diner. The vinyl is cool to my skinny legs protruding from my khaki shorts. We order my favorite: grilled cheese sandwiches, with pickles and French fries. We may be lucky enough to have chocolate milk shakes too, and since Aunt Jay is with us, I think we have a good chance. This is big stuff.
Pleasantly victualled, we’re back on the road and rumbling on, with a few more of the passengers napping this go-round. Others, like me, are looking out the window, contemplating Pennsylvania at 49 miles per hour.
“Where is Lynn?” It’s Aunt Jay interrupting my contemplation. “Is Lynn up there?” she repeats, with more than a hint of concern in her voice. Now everyone is involved in searching for my 8-year-old sister. She’s not under the seats, she’s not on anyone’s lap, and she’s not back in the cargo area. The fact is, she’s not on the bus.
My dad, the captain of this vessel, has pulled off the road. Now we’re doing a U-turn and headed back from whence we came. We determine that yes, she was there at the restaurant eating grilled cheeses with us. Everybody is concerned now. I remember thinking, wow, Lynn must be crying . . . To think we just left her there and drove off. I start crying a little myself.
Since leaving the diner we had been under way for a half hour before recognizing our fellow trooper’s absence. Now my dad is coaxing the bus along at its highest speed. “Come on… Faster,” he must be imploring. I think everybody is crying a little now.
A black and white Pennsylvania State Police car suddenly comes into view, coming our way. As it approaches we see the unmistakable little face of Lynn in the front seat between two big police officers. She’s pointing at us, in earnest as they pass us. My dad pulls off the road into the gravel amid a cloud of dust, as does the police car, and we are soon reunited with my sister, who starts crying like crazy now.
The good-natured police officers determine that their job is done and they are soon on their way. It’s an innocent time, you’ll remember. There were no reports to file and sign, no suspicion of anything foul. When Lynn calms down she tells the tale.
She had been in the rest room at the diner and when she came out we were gone. She thought, “They couldn’t have just left me could they?” After searching the general area, she sat outside for a while waiting for our return. When she realized that she may have to take matters in her own hands, she approached the two coffee-drinking police officers and told them of her plight. She reports not crying at this point, in fact she was surprised at her own calm until the final reunion with her wayward family. ”We’ll find them sweetheart. Let’s go” the more talkative officer said reassuringly.
So they did find us, and it was a happy ending to our spooky little episode. We all settle back into our seats in the bus with gratitude for grace and for the lesson in things so often taken for granted.
So count your blessings . . . And your children.
By John Robinson [email protected]