Welcome back to The Circular Journey, my friend. It's good to see you again. Congratulations are in order, in a small way, because you've made it through another week and here we are together at week's end.
I suppose, like Ms. Wonder and me, you've either worked hard and everything turned out well, or despite how hard you've worked, everything went to hell.
I hope you enjoyed more of the former and less of the latter. But enough of the pour parlers, let's get on with it.
My dad visited me in a dream last night and that went well. I even told him I love him. I still feel good about that even though I spent the afternoon in a long line waiting to vote. Dad's hometown of Chattanooga didn't figure into the dream but as I replayed it in my mind, it brought back a favorite memory from years ago about that storied city.
My dad took me to Chattanooga most Saturday mornings to teach me about where and how he grew up. We were the poster crew for the "city boy vs. country boy" fable. I never heard Dad complain or directly criticize any of our country-ways but he did always refer to our community as Dogpatch (Google it.)
My Grandpa Robert retired from his job as chief cook on a tugboat in the Tennessee River and he moved the family to the country where he planned to become a gentleman farmer. He was moderately successful at it too.
The move happened while my dad was in the Navy and when he came home, I'll bet he had a hard time adjusting. But he met my mother there in the rural area and he never lived in the city again. But he still loved it and he had plenty of stories to tell me.
I must have been about six or seven when I began accompanying my dad into the city. He would show me around and tell me stories about each street, each shop, the riverfront, and his old neighborhoods. I remember him telling me that Grandpa Robert used to farm on one of the islands in the middle of the river.
What I remember most is that my dad insisted that I become familiar with the location of the Sears department store in mid-town. He stressed that if I was ever separated from him, I should find Sears, sit at the bus stop, and wait for him to come find me.
I should explain that the "bus stop" was a fully enclosed room on the ground floor of Sears, that opened onto the sidewalk and served as a shelter for those waiting for public transit. Very civilized. It had comfortable seating, vending machines, and a news rack. I've never seen a nicer.
My dad also told me that if I waited at the bus stop for a long time, or if I felt uncomfortable for any reason, I should get on the next bus that stopped and tell the driver that I was lost and to please take me to a police station.
One day, while hanging out at the bus stop, perusing a new comic book, and waiting for my dad to finish his shopping, I decided that I was in the mood for a little excitement. I decided to walk a few blocks up and down Market Street, passing in front of Sears on each circuit. Impossible to get lost and a real adventure for a first-grader.
And so I left Sears and headed downtown. I wonder how many times I paced up and down the street until deciding I'd had enough adventure and so began looking for Sears. Imagine my surprise and confusion when I discovered the building had disappeared!
I think my next move was fairly commendable for such a young kid. I decided to walk uptown until in sight of the river, the limit of my familiar territory to the north; and then walked back down the street until I came to the rail station, which was my southern terminus. No Sears in sight! The impossible had happened. I was lost.
I quickly began walking back and forth hoping that, like Lorna Dune, the building would materialize out of the mist. There was no mist, but I'm sure you get my meaning.
At one point in my wandering, I glanced behind me and saw a policeman who seemed to be watching me with interest. Quickly, I turned away and tried to look as cool as some cucumbers, as P.G. Wodehouse put it.
You see when my dad told me to ask the bus driver to take me to the police, I realized for the first time that to become lost in the big city was a matter for the boys in blue. And like James Gagney, I wanted no part of the fuzz. You see, my mom had always been afraid of authority and I suppose I absorbed that fear from her.
I reasoned that I needed to appear normal like any not-lost, six-year-old, walking the streets with no adult supervision. Otherwise, the rozzer would suspect me of being a perp.
I continued to stroll in a leisurely way and every few minutes I would sneak a glance behind me. Each time, my worst fears were confirmed. I was being tailed. I suspected he'd radioed for backup and a stakeout was waiting for me up ahead.
What was I to do now? Trying to avoid suspicion, I was deep in thought, trying to construct a getaway by using bits of old movies I'd seen on television.
I thought highly of two tactics but was unsure of which method would suit me best--something based on the raw, give-em-hell tact of Edward G. Robinson or the smooth, skillful strategy of Humphrey Bogart.
While debating the best strategy, I slowly became aware of a voice calling my name. The voice seemed somewhat faint as if coming from far away.
I looked ahead of me and saw no one. I looked in the windows of the buildings I passed. I looked up to heaven in case I was being called by the Lord and if it were true, I knew exactly what I should say, "Lord, here am I," just like the young Samuel in the Bible.
But it wasn't the Lord. It was my cousin, Jackie, shouting at me from the other side of the street.
"Don't move," he shouted. "Stay right where you are. I'm coming to get you."
If Jackie ever received his hero's commendation for rescuing me, I never heard about it. But he will always be a hero in my heart. I hope I meet him again someday so that I can properly thank him for saving me from the long arm of the law and what I was sure would be a sentence of 30 days without the option.
