Recently my cousin Jodi asked me to refresh her memory of the old 'rest stop story'. I think she wants to use it to let her kids know that their parents haven't ever really goofed up- I mean, they never left them at a rest stop. So I searched through this here blog, sure I had already aired this laundry, but alas, I could not find it.
Sorry Mom and Dad- here's the tale of how you left me at a rest stop. Twice. I may not be totally accurate on the dates/places. Many years have passed since these things have happened, and I've mostly moved on and left them behind. Mostly.
We were coming home from some long car trip. But we didn't just take car trips, we took van trips. And our van was one of kind: orange, with racing stripes outside and carpeting on the walls inside. My dad had kitted it out himself so the back had one bench seat right behind the driver, then the rest of the back was taken up by a queen sized bed with a lovely velour bedspread. This was the 70's. The bed rested on this plywood stand under which we stuffed all of our luggage. Or ourselves when we were playing hide and seek or looking for where my parents had hidden the christmas presents- but that was only when the van was in the garage- we never traveled under the bed. So we're in this van travelling east from some ramble out in the mountains. We stopped at a reststop. I know now that it was near St. Cloud, but back then, when I was just a wee elementary student (maybe 9?) I had no idea where we where, or how far from home. We stopped. Rodg and my brothers go out to pee. My mom and I were laying down in back- she was sick and I was trying to pass the time. I said I didn't have to go. My mom kept sleeping. Then, when the guys were all gone, I thought I had better get out and go, because Rodger did not take kindly to a kid asking to pull over and I knew I'd have to hold it for several hours if I didn't take advantage of this stop. I jumped out. My mom kept sleeping. I ran into the reststop and into the women's bathroom.
When I came out I headed toward the van. Or where it used to be. Gone. My first thought was, "Well, it is a big van, maybe someone made my dad park it in the truck parking..." but a quick look in that direction revealed no orange vans. So I walked down toward the highway, thinking, "it's big and bright, maybe I can still see it and can wave it down". Nope. Nothing orange in view on the highway. At this point I was getting a little nervous. I started looking around on the ground for a dime to use the pay phone. To call someone. Not sure who. Don't even know if this was pre-911 or not. But I couldn't find a dime and started getting a little teary. It was along this time that an elderly couple noticed the lone little girl and approached me. I told them that my parents left me and they asked if I gave them lots of trouble. I said, "No, but my brothers do." They must have talked amongst themselves and somehow contacted the police. A short while later a cruiser pulled up, sirens on, wheels spinning a bit on the dramatic pull in. This must have been a big moment of excitement in a troopers otherwise boring day.
Right away he asked me for the basics: name, age, phone number, home town. And this is where I really started crying. I wasn't sure of my hometown! I knew I lived at 210 Heritage Lane, and I could have sworn it was in New Brighton, but as we travelled with my parents and people asked where we were from, they always answered "The Twin Cities". So I was imagining this trooper having to drive all around both the Twin Cities (whatever they were) and New Brighton, looking for my little green house at 210 Heritage Lane. The officer didn't enlighten me that it was probably New Brighton, nor where in the heck we were. I didn't even know if we were back in Minnesota. He plopped me into the back seat (the back seat! Behind the bars!) turned his lights and sirens on and we took off onto the freeway.
As he was speeding towards the cities, he asked some questions (do you fight a lot with your parents? No, but my brothers do...) and gleaned the important piece of info that the van was equipped with a CB. Yep. It was the 70's. No cell phones. But CB's. He asked what channel they listened to and I told him that I remembered hearing "Breaker 1-9" with some regularity.
Meanwhile, back in the van: Jean's sleeping. Rodg is driving. Pete and Dave are minding their own business. Until Pete decides to try to get me in trouble for sitting in the front seat (these were tall backed seats that went up above our heads...) without a seat belt on. The conversation went something like this:
Pete: Gret, put your seat belt on!
Rodg: Gret's not up here.
Pete: Huh.
He then starts looking around- under the bed, and under the covers on the bed. My mom wakes up.
Jean: Pete, what are you looking for?
Pete: Gret.
Jean: WHAT????
Lots of crazy screaming action. I think. I wasn't there. I was in a cop car. Eventually they get on the CB and ask if anyone has heard anything about a lost girl. Some truckers indeed are chuckling away over the girl (me!) who was left at the rest stop and they hook my parents up with the trooper who has me. By this time the van has turned around and is travelling back towards the rest stop. The cop tells them to pull over and wait for us. Soon enough (30 miles from the rest stop???) we (the cop and I) see the big orange van on the side of the highway. He gets a little thrill by cruising through the center median and kind of spinning to a stop behind the van. He asks me to stay put while he asks my parents a few questions. Apparently he believes their story about an accidental misplacement and doesn't get too concerned about the brothers fighting thing I mentioned. He returns me to their custody with a stern warning to keep a better watch on their kids.
And they do. For a few years. Until one time while we were heading north for an epic bike ride in the canadian rockies with a second van full of cousins. I was WASHING THE WINDOWS of our van when my mom walked past me, got into the front seat, and drove away. Leaving me holding the window washer squeegie thing in the air. Wondering. Was this a new way to wash these big-ass windows? She'd pull forward, I'd stand still with the squeegie then she'd kick it in reverse and come back. Back and forth back and forth and the window is done. But no. She didn't kick it into reverse, didn't come back. Kept driving.
I acted quickly this time. I dumped my squeegie and jumped in the cousin van. They were concerned....did they want me to catch up to my family? Alert them that I was in their van? No. I did not. I was done with traveling with them and would be riding with my cousins for the rest of the trip.
After that, they did indeed keep me closer and never lost me again. I don't think I am too scarred from the experiences. There were several years where I did not get out of a car without making sure I was in possession of the keys, but beyond that, I was able to move on. Forgive them even. Now that I have my own kids, I do see how it all could happen. Although it hasn't. I'd like to get that on the record.
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