The doorbell rang right as Jeopardy! was starting at 6 p.m.
It was dark and blustery so the front door was closed.
Unless it’s below zeroish, the front door is always open during the day, providing me with my very small window to the world. That day, because of the wind chill, I had kept it closed.
Owen answered the door to find two county sheriff’s deputies practically on the threshold.
I immediately muted the TV.
They were looking for a 7-year-old girl, wearing brown leopard pants and a pink sweatshirt.
We told them we hadn’t seen her and then I added that my door was usually open and I often see the same kids every day after school, but the door had been shut that day.
I asked where she lived.
One of the deputies pointed to the apartments south of me and said “ Grandma lives there,” then she pointed the other direction and said, “Mom lives right over there.”
So within viewing distance of each other.
I asked how long she had been missing and they said, “since 4.”
It was now after 6.
They asked if they could look in my backyard which I thought was odd.
My gate locks from the inside and can’t be opened by an adult, let alone a 7-year-old. There is no access from outside the gate.
They left then and I started panicking, mostly thinking about the poor mom and grandma, in addition to the little girl.
I said to Owen, who had seen plenty in his 30+ years of police work, even in our tiny town, “she’s just at a classmate’s and forgot to tell anybody, right?”
He just kind of nodded.
I asked him if the police would have gotten a classroom list from the school and again, he just shook his shoulders.
Just then, I got a text message. That really set me off.
“(Message from Converse County Joint Powers Board E911, WY) 7 YR OLD FEMALE LSW LEOPARD PANTS WITH A PINK REEBOK HOODIE BLONDISH/BROWN HAIR BLUE EYES. ABOUT 3 1/2FT TALL 80-100LBS PINK AND BROWN HIGH-TOP SHOES”
You notice that nothing indicates from where in Converse County she was missing— or who to call with information.
A robo call with the same voice that alerts us to severe summer weather, usually after it passes, came next with the same message.
Maybe foolishly, I sent a Facebook post to one of the Glenrock town forum pages.
Twenty-three minutes after the deputies came to the door, we got another text, saying only that the juvenile had been located.
I wondered how much of those two hours her people had been frantic, or if two people assumed she was with the other for most of that time.
I think we could all be a little more aware of the kids we see in our neighborhoods. I wish 7-year-olds were not out alone, even in a tiny town. I am glad she is okay.
When Casper’s Eastridge Mall first opened, it was a big deal. Stupendous really to think that Detroit and Denver brand-name shopping had made its way to the Oil City.
As an oilfield wife alone a lot with infant and then toddler Joe, we spent hours and hours at the mall.
Because he was incredibly hard to wrangle, I used a flimsy aluminum umbrella stroller in a vain attempt to make him sit still.
We were in the Bon and I was looking through a rack of clothes, one hanger at a time. I remember that the rack was very near the outside entrance to the store.
I looked down at the stroller immediately next to my right foot and it was gone. Not just Joe the Prince, firstborn grandchild, most perfect child in all the land, but the stroller too.
As I raised my voice in hysteria, lots of people came running.
I walked to the round rack next to where I had been standing, moved the hangers with clothes skimming the floor, and there was the little imp in the middle of the rack, playing hide and seek in the clothes — still buckled in the stroller.
Lots of years later, but before cell phones, he had baseball practice clear out at Bar Nunn Park. When I dropped him off, I asked a coach how long practice would last, and told both him and Joe that I would be back before then.
I went home, switched a couple of loads of laundry, started dinner and went back to the park, only to find the ball field completely empty.
( My heart is racing as I type this).
I parked the car, yelled for him, walked the perimeter of the field, and nothing.
I went home, called a teammate’s mom and the coach, and nobody knew anything.
Completely panicking now, I went back to the field and there he was, all alone.
Through my sobs, I asked where he was before and he said, “Geez, Mom, I was in the bathroom.”
Parenting is not for the weak, or those prone to hysteria.
When I think of the coach leaving my kid there, I still get furious and it’s been probably 30 years.
The Prince has a birthday this week. I worry about him as much today as I did that morning in the Bon, or that late afternoon at the ball field.
(In the interest of equal opportunity, I worry about his sister too).
Motherhood is a gift, but it doesn’t come free of worry. I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Sally Ann Shurmur can be reached at: SallyAnnShurmur@gmail.com
