I remember an event from my childhood that opened the door to questions about life, and how we all get along. I might, I confess, have a few details confused, but I am certain of the feelings I had. It was a pleasant day, and I was probably about 7 years old. Our next-door neighbors were an older couple who lived in a stately old house. We saw them occasionally, waving in the yard, borrowing something neighborly, etc. The woman, I’ll call her Mrs. C, was nice, but had a rather gruff way about her. Her voice was loud, raspy, and hard. When she talked, I thought it sounded like she was yelling, maybe even fussing at someone. Mr. C was a quiet, gentle man. He reminded me of my grandfather in Virginia, who had a similar nature. But, I really didn’t know Mr. C. I don’t think he had ever said anything directly to me. I usually saw him from a distance. In fact, every interaction I ever had with either of them involved my parents in front, and me standing behind, speaking only if necessary.
Which is why it was so strange that this event happened at all. Our backyard connected to Mr. & Mrs. C’s backyard through an opening in the hedge bushes. On this fine day, I found myself, along with my sister, walking through the hedge into their yard. I don’t know how we were invited, but, apparently, Mr. C had a new car, and he invited us to go for a ride. And soon, another set of siblings, who lived on our street, were there, too. Like I said, I’m not sure how the invitation was extended. It seemed out of character for Mr. C to instigate an outing with 4 neighborhood kids. When you get a new car, is that what you immediately do? Invite kids you barely know to go riding in it? Well, apparently, all the grownups thought this was a proper thing to do, so Mr. C and us 4 kiddos backed down the driveway and started off.
He drove us to a nearby nature area with a gravel road that looped around through the woods. I know this sounds bad—elderly acquaintance, innocent children, alone in the woods. But, there was nothing sinister going on. It was just strange. The car bounced and dipped as he navigated the bumpy road. Then, I have no idea who suggested this, or why he agreed, but, we started taking turns crawling out a window and sitting on the top of the car. Now, I was the youngest in the group, so I just went along. If I had any questions about safety or good judgement, I ignored them. On my turn, I happily slid up through the open window, scampered onto the top of the car, and rode the bumpy trail, pushing tree limbs and leaves out of my face. When my turn ended, I precariously scooted my way back through the window. We each had several turns as king of the road. I cannot, for the life of me, imagine why Mr. C let us do that.
Apparently, he shouldn’t have. We returned back to Mr. C’s house. We, the kids, were all flush with excitement from the daring adventure we had just completed. No one had ever let us sit on the roof of a moving car—we were completely jacked up about it. Our parents came to collect us, and stood around in the driveway finishing up the niceties. Full of energy, we kids were running around, calling out loudly to one another. Then, for some unknown reason, I ran over to Mr. C’s car, jumped inside, and then crawled through the open window to get back onto the roof. TA DA! I felt the mood change drastically. Mrs. C was startled and started yelling at me to “Get Off Of My Car!!”. Terrified, I scrambled down and high-tailed it home, looking back and seeing my parents’ what-has-gotten-into-you expressions. Actually, I can’t remember if my parents were standing there or not. Maybe it was just Mrs. C who saw the dirty deed and immediately called my parents in anger to report the news about their hoodlum child.
I do remember, though, that I sat alone at home, having been admonished, while my parents met face-to-face with Mrs. C. What I didn’t understand was what had I done wrong? One minute, we were laughing and playing, with permission. The next minute, I was the bad guy for doing the exact same thing. Where was Mr. C in all of this? My elementary-aged brain wrestled with the meaning of this unfortunate turn of events. I was currently in a wait-til-your-father-gets-home state of worry. Maybe, I reasoned, the truth would come out, and apologies would be extended. Instead, my parents returned, distressed with my misbehavior. Mr. C had not come to my rescue. Here’s where I don’t know exactly how it went down. I don’t know if Mr. C willfully let his wife think that I jumped on the roof all on my own, out of the blue. Or, perhaps he didn’t know how the scandal was developing. Maybe he had gone inside to take a shower, and didn’t see the commotion that was brewing. Or, maybe, he was afraid to admit what he had let us kids get away with. His wife was a little bit scary.
I had a talking-to. My parents were grave, solemn, and very disappointed. They wondered why in the world I had done it, and they were thankful that the paint on the new car had not been damaged, or the roof had not been dented. Then, I didn’t get a spanking, a whoppin’, or a paddling; I got switched. It’s the only switching I ever had. Switching involves being flogged with the thinnest twig, which acts like a tiny whip. I received only 2 or 3 swipes. I had the feeling that my dad felt obligated to report back to Mrs. C that due punishment had been served. I don’t know why I didn’t rat out Mr. C and explain that I wasn’t the only one who had sat on the car. I somehow had the feeling that something was going on that I didn’t understand. And I didn’t want to poke the bear, so I stayed mum. I think we all, as kids, feel misunderstood at times. They’ve got it wrong about me—some day I’ll show them! Whatever my reasoning, I didn’t explain anything. I think I knew that the whole afternoon had been a mess. We really shouldn’t have been riding on the roof of the car. The fact that no one was defending me proved that. So, I took my punishment in silence and promised not to do anything like that again.
Eventually, Mr. C cleared everything up. Was it the same day? A week later? I don’t know. I remember that my dad apologized for switching me, but he couldn’t understand why I didn’t tell my side of the story. I said that I didn’t know. I didn’t feel like talking about it anymore. I did know that I had not wanted to throw Mr. C under the bus that day, or afterwards. After all, grownups were the ones who were supposed to know what to do. They were supposed to make the good decisions. I was just a kid. What did I know?
I actually feel sorry for everyone in my story. I feel sorry for Mr. C, that he was reluctant to admit what he had done, although, in fairness, I’m not sure if he was. He might have stood up immediately when he realized what was happening. But, to me, it seemed like there was a pretty big delay. I feel sorry for Mrs. C, that she was the kind of person who would fly off the handle reacting so angrily, so quickly, demanding justice. I feel sorry for my parents, who were completely taken aback, but felt they had to administer proper punishment. And I feel sorry for me, the poor little kid, wrongly accused, who suffered silently, not understanding any of it.
I wish that, as the years passed, I could say that I have amassed so much knowledge that I have figured it all out. But, I haven’t. We make bad decisions, try to cover our tracks, fail to stand up for one another, question our motivations, wonder what we did wrong. Is it just me? I wish I had a good ending to wrap up the story, but I don’t. I hope I can draw on my experiences to help me do better in life and impart some wisdom on my kids. It’s just that some of my experiences fall into the category of Things That Make You Go HMMMM.