Carry is not quite five when we abandon her at Skagway.
We don't leave her intentionally, of course. Nevertheless, she refuses to forgive us. Our youngest sister has always been a drama queen but recently has developed an unattractive tendency toward nursing a grudge . It's because of the day she crawls up the kitchen cabinets to claim the peanut butter and nearly plummets to her death.
"My God! My God!" she screams one afternoon as we lounge lazily in the tv room after school. Mom strictly forbids us to take the Lord's name in vain. Carry, however, in spite of her not-quite-five-years, can barely form a sentence without invoking the name of the Almighty. She's picked up the habit watching Mom's soap operas and uses it to startling effect. On this particular afternoon, however, we roll our eyes and pay no attention. But Carry refuses to be ignored.
It's probably a good thing we eventually respond. After maneuvering herself up the kitchen cabinets, Carry loses her tenuous grip and falls but is saved when her underwear fortunately hooks to the nob of the silverware drawer and suspends her in mid-air.
We double over and cry laughing, but nobody makes a move to disentangle her.
"My God, why don't you help me!" she thrashes her arms and legs in the air and shrieks at an earsplitting pitch.
The incident is still fresh a few days later when we drive off and leave her at Skagway. Carry is left with the peculiar notion that we don't seem to care much for her.
In our defense, we're still trying to get the hang of our new routine in Grand Island. Back in Denver, we walk everywhere. School and church are less than a hundred yards away. Shop Rite Grocer is five blocks away. There is almost never a reason to drive anywhere. Everything changes, however, when we move to Grand Island. Living outside the city limits requires us to inhabit the old brown station wagon for a good chunk of the day.
Because we own only one vehicle, all of us must accompany Mom to Skagway every Monday after school to endure the weekly shopping expedition. Skagway is a small town wonder. We've never seen anything even close to it. Shining like a gleaming jewel at the five points intersection in north Grand Island, Skagway sells groceries, shoes, clothes, fishing poles, chewing tobacco, Christmas trees, bowling balls and even ice cream cones. You can mail your letters at the handy post office or drop off your film at the convenient photo center. It's not uncommon to see farmers in overalls lounging in the friendly aisles of Skagway to discuss center pivots or the latest Husker victory. Skagway is the place to be.
"Stay together!" Mom orders as we march like a small parade into the store. She eventually sends some of us off, though, to collect grocery items. The boys grab six gallons of milk, all that our refrigerator will hold. I'm responsible for gathering five packs of toilet paper, and Deb carts our infant brother Jeff around so that Mom has more room in the cart. The process should work like a well oiled machine.
The trouble is Carry. Easily distracted, our youngest sister is an inveterate people watcher. She's fascinated by farmers and their easy, laughing banter. She stares with complete absorption at the stock boys who fill shelves with laundry detergents. Teenagers who cluster together in the snack bar leaning their heads close together capture her riveted attention. Carry wonders about all of them. Her attention is so focused that she forgets to follow Mom and the rest of us. Oblivious, we make our slow way around the store until at last we crowd into the checkout aisle together as Mom pays for groceries. Somehow, we find room in the car for all of us and 14 bags of groceries which we hoist onto our laps and stuff into every available corner of the station wagon. In all the confusion, nobody notices that Carry is MIA.
At home we help Mom put away the mountains of groceries and settle down to start our homework. Mom sits down to read the paper before busying herself with the task of preparing dinner. She calls Carry to put away her crayons.
"Where IS she?" Mom wonders when Carry fails to respond. We shrug over our homework barely listening. In a few minutes, however, Mom is panic stricken.
"When was the last time anybody saw Mary Caroline?" she demands. We stare at each other. "Think!" Mom slams her hand on the table.
It's not long before we realize we have forgotten to bring Carry home from Skagway. Mom grows pale. Without a word, she grabs her purse and races to the car. Mary and Terri run after her and jump into the station wagon just as it screeches out of the driveway.
Meanwhile, Skagway is having its own problems. Carry is not only an abandoned child but also an extremely difficult one. Refusing comfort of any kind, she screams bloody murder and demands to know where her mother is. Rattled employees attempt to seduce her with candy of every assortment in an effort to obtain information, but Carry rejects the sweets piled next to her.
"I want my mom!" she wails.
At last, a teenage checker who goes to school with my brothers Joe, Mick and Rick observes the family resemblance. "I think I know who she belongs to," she offers.
At the very moment Skagway calls home, Mom is rushing to them. She skids into the store with Mary and Terri in her wake and immediately hears her youngest daughter's piercing screams from the rear of the store. Less than a minute later, Carry is gathered close in Mom's arms.
"Why didn't you help me?" she sobs. Mary and Terri, safe in the knowledge that Carry is alive and well, dive straight for the pile of candy and stuff it hastily in their pockets. The woman who has been dealing with a screaming little girl for the last 90 minutes, however, is not remotely sympathetic.
"I fail to understand why it takes an hour and a half to notice a child is missing," she glares accusingly at Mom.
All at once, Mom is exhausted. She apologizes profusely and thanks the store employees but makes no attempt to offer explanations. What can she say? "I have ten kids and didn't know I lost one" seems a weak excuse at best.
We all feel terrible. Mom cuddles Carry in the tv room recliner all evening.
"My God, my God," Carry moans in agony. She's milking it all right, but Mom doesn't scold her once. Overcome by my own terrible guilt, I try to apologize to my little sister.
"I brought you some ice cream, Carry!" I hold the bowl enticingly close to her. Briefly she raises her head to glare at me with eyes full of daggers.
"My God," she hisses. "Get out."
Then she nestles her head against Mom, resumes her moaning, and behaves as if the rest of us cease to exist.
When Dad arrives home from work, Mom gently explains the events of the afternoon and evening. Furious, Dad lectures all of us for a good 20 minutes.
"And from now on," he concludes with a roar, "we're taking roll call every time we get in that damn station wagon!"
We do, too. That's how we discover a few weeks later, just as we're backing out of the driveway to go to church, that our three-year-old brother Tommy is missing. Mom rushes back into the house and discovers him asleep under the coffee table.
Still half asleep and whimpering, Tommy is safely deposited into the crack of the station wagon to sit, knees touching, with Carry. She rakes him up and down with a gaze of smug superiority.
"My God," she rolls her eyes in disgust. "What a baby."
And who can blame her? After all, she survived abandonment by her entire family for an hour and a half at Skagway - Grand Island's Only One Stop Shopping Place.
We don't leave her intentionally, of course. Nevertheless, she refuses to forgive us. Our youngest sister has always been a drama queen but recently has developed an unattractive tendency toward nursing a grudge . It's because of the day she crawls up the kitchen cabinets to claim the peanut butter and nearly plummets to her death.
 |
| Clowning in the backyard in Grand Island. |
"My God! My God!" she screams one afternoon as we lounge lazily in the tv room after school. Mom strictly forbids us to take the Lord's name in vain. Carry, however, in spite of her not-quite-five-years, can barely form a sentence without invoking the name of the Almighty. She's picked up the habit watching Mom's soap operas and uses it to startling effect. On this particular afternoon, however, we roll our eyes and pay no attention. But Carry refuses to be ignored.
It's probably a good thing we eventually respond. After maneuvering herself up the kitchen cabinets, Carry loses her tenuous grip and falls but is saved when her underwear fortunately hooks to the nob of the silverware drawer and suspends her in mid-air.
We double over and cry laughing, but nobody makes a move to disentangle her.
"My God, why don't you help me!" she thrashes her arms and legs in the air and shrieks at an earsplitting pitch.
The incident is still fresh a few days later when we drive off and leave her at Skagway. Carry is left with the peculiar notion that we don't seem to care much for her.
In our defense, we're still trying to get the hang of our new routine in Grand Island. Back in Denver, we walk everywhere. School and church are less than a hundred yards away. Shop Rite Grocer is five blocks away. There is almost never a reason to drive anywhere. Everything changes, however, when we move to Grand Island. Living outside the city limits requires us to inhabit the old brown station wagon for a good chunk of the day.
Because we own only one vehicle, all of us must accompany Mom to Skagway every Monday after school to endure the weekly shopping expedition. Skagway is a small town wonder. We've never seen anything even close to it. Shining like a gleaming jewel at the five points intersection in north Grand Island, Skagway sells groceries, shoes, clothes, fishing poles, chewing tobacco, Christmas trees, bowling balls and even ice cream cones. You can mail your letters at the handy post office or drop off your film at the convenient photo center. It's not uncommon to see farmers in overalls lounging in the friendly aisles of Skagway to discuss center pivots or the latest Husker victory. Skagway is the place to be.
"Stay together!" Mom orders as we march like a small parade into the store. She eventually sends some of us off, though, to collect grocery items. The boys grab six gallons of milk, all that our refrigerator will hold. I'm responsible for gathering five packs of toilet paper, and Deb carts our infant brother Jeff around so that Mom has more room in the cart. The process should work like a well oiled machine.
The trouble is Carry. Easily distracted, our youngest sister is an inveterate people watcher. She's fascinated by farmers and their easy, laughing banter. She stares with complete absorption at the stock boys who fill shelves with laundry detergents. Teenagers who cluster together in the snack bar leaning their heads close together capture her riveted attention. Carry wonders about all of them. Her attention is so focused that she forgets to follow Mom and the rest of us. Oblivious, we make our slow way around the store until at last we crowd into the checkout aisle together as Mom pays for groceries. Somehow, we find room in the car for all of us and 14 bags of groceries which we hoist onto our laps and stuff into every available corner of the station wagon. In all the confusion, nobody notices that Carry is MIA.
At home we help Mom put away the mountains of groceries and settle down to start our homework. Mom sits down to read the paper before busying herself with the task of preparing dinner. She calls Carry to put away her crayons.
"Where IS she?" Mom wonders when Carry fails to respond. We shrug over our homework barely listening. In a few minutes, however, Mom is panic stricken.
 |
| Carry and Terri |
It's not long before we realize we have forgotten to bring Carry home from Skagway. Mom grows pale. Without a word, she grabs her purse and races to the car. Mary and Terri run after her and jump into the station wagon just as it screeches out of the driveway.
Meanwhile, Skagway is having its own problems. Carry is not only an abandoned child but also an extremely difficult one. Refusing comfort of any kind, she screams bloody murder and demands to know where her mother is. Rattled employees attempt to seduce her with candy of every assortment in an effort to obtain information, but Carry rejects the sweets piled next to her.
"I want my mom!" she wails.
At last, a teenage checker who goes to school with my brothers Joe, Mick and Rick observes the family resemblance. "I think I know who she belongs to," she offers.
At the very moment Skagway calls home, Mom is rushing to them. She skids into the store with Mary and Terri in her wake and immediately hears her youngest daughter's piercing screams from the rear of the store. Less than a minute later, Carry is gathered close in Mom's arms.
"Why didn't you help me?" she sobs. Mary and Terri, safe in the knowledge that Carry is alive and well, dive straight for the pile of candy and stuff it hastily in their pockets. The woman who has been dealing with a screaming little girl for the last 90 minutes, however, is not remotely sympathetic.
"I fail to understand why it takes an hour and a half to notice a child is missing," she glares accusingly at Mom.
All at once, Mom is exhausted. She apologizes profusely and thanks the store employees but makes no attempt to offer explanations. What can she say? "I have ten kids and didn't know I lost one" seems a weak excuse at best.
 |
| Carry - age 4 |
We all feel terrible. Mom cuddles Carry in the tv room recliner all evening.
"My God, my God," Carry moans in agony. She's milking it all right, but Mom doesn't scold her once. Overcome by my own terrible guilt, I try to apologize to my little sister.
"I brought you some ice cream, Carry!" I hold the bowl enticingly close to her. Briefly she raises her head to glare at me with eyes full of daggers.
"My God," she hisses. "Get out."
Then she nestles her head against Mom, resumes her moaning, and behaves as if the rest of us cease to exist.
When Dad arrives home from work, Mom gently explains the events of the afternoon and evening. Furious, Dad lectures all of us for a good 20 minutes.
"And from now on," he concludes with a roar, "we're taking roll call every time we get in that damn station wagon!"
We do, too. That's how we discover a few weeks later, just as we're backing out of the driveway to go to church, that our three-year-old brother Tommy is missing. Mom rushes back into the house and discovers him asleep under the coffee table.
Still half asleep and whimpering, Tommy is safely deposited into the crack of the station wagon to sit, knees touching, with Carry. She rakes him up and down with a gaze of smug superiority.
"My God," she rolls her eyes in disgust. "What a baby."
And who can blame her? After all, she survived abandonment by her entire family for an hour and a half at Skagway - Grand Island's Only One Stop Shopping Place.
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