Another Look at being misplaced by: Anita Rutherford

My story begins in Fairfield, California when I was about 5 or 6 years old. It was a Sunday afternoon in the fall. The day was warm, with just that hint of crispness in the air that early fall brings. My family was attending some sort of gathering at the Methodist Church. I loved that old church, a big old brown-shingle on a corner about 3 blocks from home. It had stained glass windows and faded purple seat cushions on the pews. There was an enormous old pipe organ in one corner of the dais and its tall pipes glowed a soft gold color in the gloom of the sanctuary. There was a social hall with long tables for hospitality hour where coffee and tea were served after services. (My very first cup of Lipton's tea was served there, more sugar than tea.) There was a stage in the social hall where the community teens held talent shows and various kinds of skits. That room was also the scene of many delicious potluck suppers. Those Methodist ladies could surely cook. I think I was a "Foodie" even at 5 years old.

This particular Sunday afternoon my Dad and Mom and my big brother, Ralph, who was at least 16 0r 17, were busy visiting and chatting with friends and church members. I began to feel tired and restless, and since I was almost a grown-up in my eyes, anyhow, I decided to walk home. I simply left, walking home. I knew my family would know where I had gone. After all, I knew the way and I knew not to talk to strangers or accept a ride from anyone. I sauntered along, looking at the sights and when I reached home, I dragged a bench under the living room window and climbed in, not being quite grown-up enough to have my own key! I got my crayons and paper and sat down in the living room to draw and wait for my family to come home.

Meanwhile, back at the church my mom had discovered I was not in sight. She looked around a bit, then asked my Dad if he had seen me. Then they began to all search in earnest. Soon everyone in the church was searching. They looked in the bell tower, in the Sunday school rooms, behind the organ, in the attic, everywhere. Nowhere was there a little girl with red "sausage" curls and a ruffled dress. My mom began to cry. My Dad and the minister called the police, who arrived to gather information for a missing child, possibly kid-napped.
My brother, who had only recently begun to drive on his own after receiving his driver's license, decided to look at home, just on the slight chance I was there, somehow. (Several people had driven by, but no one thought to see if I was inside.)

By now I was bored at home and when I heard our car pull up I was so happy my family had come home. My brother opened the door and I saw his face! I knew that somehow I had made an error in judgment and I was in really hot water! He grabbed my arm, dragged me to the car, stuffed me in the seat, all the while grumbling and gritting his teeth like he wanted to kill me. He drove us back to church where we were greeted by my tearful and relieved parents, and the rest of the congregation. They were all so relieved that I was safe that I only got a fierce scolding from my parents and several other people besides. I was sure I was in for a spanking but I escaped that. However, my brother was mad at me for a month and I had plenty of time to reflect on the fact that parents really can't read your mind.