To the editor:
I was a teenager growing up in West Plains, out with my then-boyfriend, doing what kids did on weekend nights. Circle the square, go down the Avenue, turn left on Main, around the Dairy Queen, the Sonic, and off to the A & W. Wave at friends, see and be seen. Repeat.
On this well-worn route, one passed the bus station on Main. On one such evening I noticed a little boy in the bus station parking lot perched on a suitcase. I thought nothing of it. It was early, streets were busy, well lit, and included the obligatory police car, or two.
As the evening grew later, the bus station closed, and its lights went out, leaving a small black silhouette in a now-empty parking lot, still perched on a suitcase. As it grew later and later, I glanced over to see if he was still there. He was always still there.
I waited for somebody to pick him up, for someone to stop and check on him, for maybe the police to take notice and stop. He had been perched there for such a long time. Why was he still there? But each time we passed, I looked, and there he was.
The drive-ins closed and traffic dwindled to nothing. I no longer even saw the occasional police cruiser. Yet, there he sat. Alone. In the dark. On a mostly-empty street. Waiting for whoever wasn't showing up to come and get him.
It was time to go home. I wondered what he was thinking, what he must be feeling, if he was scared. Should I mind my own business, go home, trust that he would be picked up? No. Somehow or another he had become my business.
If I went home, a little silhouette would go with me. So I asked my boyfriend to stop so we could talk to him. He told us he had ridden the bus from Pennsylvania or Philadelphia (I don't recall which). His grandparents were supposed to pick him up.
He had no addresses, no phone numbers, no contact information. I don't think he even knew their last names. He didn't know why they had not come for him. We loaded him up with his suitcase, but with absolutely no plan, no sense of direction.
He said they didn't live in town. So the plan we came up with was to drive around in the country while he looked out the window for their house. I secretly feared it was an absurd exercise in futility, but we didn't have a better idea or plan.
I could take him home with me and try again the next day, hopefully with a better plan. There weren't even streetlights for him to see by. How could he recognize their house? In the meantime, we kept driving, kept hoping, and he kept looking.
Suddenly, he blurted out, "That's it! That's their house!" We pulled into the driveway, staring at the house doubtfully. But he was so excited, so sure of himself, he immediately jumped out, and ran to the door with his suitcase.
We watched and listened, a bit anxiously. But the happy, surprised squeals and chatter from grandma left no doubt that he was where he needed to be. A small 4 a.m. miracle. We left and drove ourselves where we needed to be.
The Quill back then was somewhat challenged in the riveting news department. Front and center in the Quill later was an article saying his grandparents had gotten his arrival date wrong, and wanted to thank whoever had helped their grandson.
I was a bit shy, content with a little boy's happy ending, and never responded to the grandparents’ request. In the 55 years since, what has occasionally come to mind isn't a face or a name, but a little silhouette in an empty parking lot.
Only recently have I thought it might be fun to see if I could contact him. Is it possible the Quill might have the original article, names, the correct state in their archives that might help me on yet another
needle in a haystack venture?
Sometimes those needles really do pop up! :-)
Editor’s note: The Quill has referred the author of this letter to the Ozarks Heritage Resource Center in the Missouri State University-West Plains Garnett Library, which keeps the Quill’s archives, for assistance finding the article. Readers with memories information about this event are also invited to share what they know, or contact the Quill to be put in touch with the author. Email news@westplainsdailyquill.net or call 417-256-9191.
