It's not many people who can say that they were put into the back of a patrol car, and even less can say that it happened when they were nine. But I have a short story on just that. The deal started out that I was just to ride the bus home from school. This had worked out well since Kindergarten. The Sister inherited a car, our grandmothers very plush Buick Regal in navy blue, and apparently my mom insisted that she take me home as well. It was a convoluted plan to say the least. The School bus picked up us grammar school kids and then went across the street to the middle school (the high school was in back of it) to line up and pick up any kids from both campuses. I was to get off the bus there in front of the office and auditorium and walk east towards the gym to wait for my sister to pick me up. Honestly, it would have been less of a hassle to just stay on the bus. Besides the fact that on more than one occasion our bus would be making the last distance to home and see The Sister stranded because of the faulty radiator. The plan was only executed the one time and was a failure so never happened again. I got off the bus and walked towards the gym and the parking lot in front of it. No blue Buick. No The Sister. The busses filed out and left. Still no The Sister. I didn't know what to do. She could have been held up (she was in high school and in theatre, perhaps there was an after school thing?) or perhaps she just didn't bother waiting (it turned out to be the latter). I walked towards the office, but Middle School is scary new territory. I didn't know this school or the staff, plus there didn't seem to be anyone around. I figured I could just walk home, so that's what I did. It wasn't raining, but had been most of the day. It was dark and cloudy and slightly chilly. I left the school intending to walk home. I wasn't a good judge of distance and time at age nine. Looking it up now, it's about a 6 mile walk that would have taken about 2.5 hours to complete. I made it to that pink star there and the Lamar County Sheriff passed me up... then turned around. I wasn't terrified of walking home or that it was winter and the days were short or that it was rainy weather. I was terrified of the cops. Authority. I could get in trouble. He passed me again and turned around to come up beside me and then stopped the car and got out. Wanted to know why I didn't take the bus. Wanted to know where I was headed. I was the kid who failed a section in Kindergarten because I refused to give out our home or dad's work telephone, because I was told never to give them out (so it was assumed I hadn't learned that yet and failed that section - until mom intervened and said I took it too literally and did, in fact, know the numbers). So, I wasn't supposed to tell people where I lived or what I was doing. The entire situation was scary. He was nicefully forceful in saying that I had to tell him where I lived. So I did, though I didn't want to. "That is too far for you to walk! You get in the back there and I'll take you home." PANIC! I didn't want to get into the back of the cop car. "I'm going to my friends house!", I blurted out. "Oh, and where is that?" I gave the address and it was off of Cox Avenue that you see is about the same distance from my house as I was at that moment from the school. "I'm sorry, that's still a really long walk." I figured I shouldn't say no at his insistances of me to get into the back of the car. I figured I would get into trouble, though I really did not want to get in there. (This sounds like it will end up being a sordid tale, but really he did me a favour and wasn't a creep at all.) So, I'm in the back of the cop car and he radio's in about me and it sounds all official and I can't stress it enough; absolutely scary. I try the door handle and I'm locked in ('duh! Of course cop cars are locked, you've seen enough cop shows because of mom. Oh... mom's going to kill me!'). But I was frantic and still kept trying the door, then was scared that I would get in trouble for trying to escape, so I just stopped before he could notice. We make it to my drive way and there's the blue Buick parked in the drive and our blue station wagon. He rings the door bell and my mom opens the door, looks shocked that I'm with the police, then she's angry at me because I wasn't there for The Sister to pick up. The Sister and I both were reprimanded, her when it was found out that she simply didn't even stop at the gym, and me because I had a cop bring me home. She was just glad she didn't have to have something else to deal with in that of her youngest not being home and dealing with having to go out and look for me or something. (Which is not a thing she had done, but only thought she'd have to do if I didn't show up by dark). This story has changed now that my mom is older. I don't know if her mind is slipping or this is how she really wanted things to go down, but she's been changing a lot of her stories from what really happened or what we'd always heard our entire lives to something that paints her in a better light. Now, the story is that she'd been in the car, frantically searching for me for hours (couldn't have been hours I was only off that bus maybe one hour before I arrived home and some of that time wouldn't count as me "missing") & came home from a search to find me there and was so relieved! You try to nicely tell her that that's not the story, but she won't hear it, and what's the point in sitting there arguing with her, so I don't. It's not even a story from my very early childhood that I could have mixed up in my remembering or one that I was merely told. I was there. I was old enough to remember. I do remember. There is another example where I wouldn't know, but her story has suddenly changed and I can't believe the new version. So, it's my first birthday (of which I was there, but I don't remember anything about it). I'd been refusing to walk, only to crawl or be carried. My maternal grandmother (mom's adopted mom whom she had issues with) came and bought me a pair of blue jeans and a long sleeved shirt with blue whales on them. I was put into these clothes and set on the kitchen floor and mom wanted me to walk to her so badly, but instead I stood myself up and ran towards my grandmother. That's the story I've heard my entire life. And you could always hear the bitter disappointment in my mothers voice as she got to the end or mentioned her mother.
Now, it's that my grandmother bought me that cute outfit and I was placed on the floor and ran to her. It's not like as a baby I could help who I'd run to, I wasn't specifically hating my mother or anything. Babies don't think like that. But, if my mom wants to change the story so that I choose her, who am I to begrudge her that? Even though I'm betting that the first story is the true version.
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AuthorA girl from South Mississippi who finds herself in exploration. Archives
November 2019
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