Friday Follies ~~ Lost

I am not someone who gets lost. Not usually.

As a little kid it just never happened. I roamed the countryside around our home, across farms and through the woods. I always knew where home was.

It took two things to introduce me to “getting lost.” First, we moved to the city. Then I was given my first “real” bicycle.

I still knew where home was. The problem was, I could get to places where the roads didn’t go where I wanted them to. At the same time, I would wander off and explore, not paying much attention to how I had gotten to where I was. Suddenly I would realize that, while I still knew where home was, I didn’t know how to get there. There would be obstacles between me and the direct route home. Usually, this wasn’t that big a problem. With time, I’d work it out.

There was a strict rule in my mother’s house. We simply had to be home in time for dinner. The consequences of being late for dinner were not to be considered. It happened several times, and I got in increasingly more trouble each time. My father was a real pragmatist. He gave me a wristwatch. “You know how to read this thing,” Dad said. “I suggest that, after four o’clock,” you start heading for home.” That worked for a while.

Then there was the Saturday afternoon when I managed to get really well and truly lost. I’d been out on the bike, wandering around, exploring and having a great time. I became aware that it was getting on in the afternoon. I should be getting back toward home. Of course I hadn’t paid a lot of attention to how I’d gotten to where I was.

I made a discovery. No matter where I went, the roads didn’t work to get me home. There was a railroad and a river in the way. I’d get so far toward where I wanted to go, and the roads would stop going in the right direction. It was frustrating, and starting to verge on scary.

I suppose I could have asked directions, but I’d been indoctrinated with a strict, “don’t ever talk to strangers” rule.

It was getting late, and dark. I was going to be in trouble. Then I saw a policeman, walking a beat. (That used to happen in those days.) I had conflicting emotions. I’d had a lot of teaching that said, “policemen are our friends.” This had come from my mother, and in school. But I’d also had some conflicting information.

I’d been around my grandfather a lot. He was an interesting character, a completely un-reconstructed individualist. He didn’t like police. That was putting it mildly. Then too, if police were such nice guys, how come my parents reacted the way they did? They would be driving, and there would be the, “Lookout! There’s a cop!” moment. I didn’t realize that both of them were habitual speed offenders.

So seeing a policeman gave me a conflicting set of emotions. But I needed help. The fear of being late for dinner was bigger than the vague unease I had around policemen. I stopped and addressed the cop. “Sir, could you tell me how to get home?”

He seemed like a very stern individual. There was some conversation about where I lived. Then he asked me a question I would hear a lot in the years to come. “How did you get here? Do you know how far away you are?”

I explained that I’d been riding my bike. He looked at me oddly. (That would happen a lot in the years ahead too.) Then he said, “It’s okay, son. We’ll get you taken care of.” We walked down the block to a call box. He unlocked the box, and there was a phone in it. He called his station. Then we waited. Turned out that I was over ten miles away from home.

After a while a large police car appeared. My bike and I were loaded into the car and driven home. This was noticed when I arrived. Then too, the police talked with my parents.

I caught holy hell. I’d been late for dinner. That was compounded by being driven home by the cops.

Much later, after the dust settled, Dad came to me and said, “Steve. Get a map. They are cheap. Carry it with you. It will keep you out of trouble.” Wow! New concept.

I could carry a map with me!

It wasn’t the last time I was late for dinner, or the last time I got lost. But the map, along with the bike, opened up a lot more of the world to me. Call it a learning experience.