Lost

I encountered a lost child in the Dallas/Ft. Worth airport this summer. He leapt onto a shuttle train just before the doors closed, leaving his exasperated family behind. He looked like my oldest son, and I would find out that he was, in fact, the same age -- 11. I could tell he had wanted to make the train and assumed that others would follow his lead. My son would have made the same assumption, but the automatic doors on the automatic train were unforgiving and could not be stopped. The boy acted calm, but I knew he was lost.

"Do you know where you're supposed to go?" I asked. We were riding a loop between five large terminals, each with two stops.

"No," he replied simply. When got to the next station he started to get off, but I and the other passengers urged him to stay put.

"You should go back to where you were," we/I reasoned. In retrospect, I think he should have gotten off and walked across to a returning train. Instead, I told him to ride the loop; I was in no hurry. I would stay with him. He said that was fine.  He accepted my help, but was appropriately wary. Of course, I didn't realize how very large this airport was, how very long the loop took. By the time we returned to our starting point, the boy's family was gone. Maybe they went to the next station to look for him. Maybe they went to their destination terminal, thinking the boy would know where to go.

I walked him over to a TSA security woman and explained the situation. She began ushering him to an area to page his family, adding that they must be frantic. I started to follow and realized that I no longer had a role. I informed the agent that I was headed to a connecting flight and left them, resuming my journey.

There was no reason for me to stay, but I felt unsettled as I left. Did I make matters worse? I was certain the boy would be reunited eventually. I learned on the train that he was from Fort Worth, that his family wasn't going to a connection but simply to the terminal where they parked. The boy knew his mother's cell phone number, but when we called on my phone, there was no answer. "I think her phone is in her luggage," he explained. If the family didn't answer the page, he could try again, leave a message. He was 11. He wasn't five.

I imagined by own 11-year-old son scurrying onto that train ahead of us and the doors closing behind. He would make his way back, too, wouldn't he? Eleven is an age of emergent ability and independence. Huck Finn was that age (more or less), and so was Harry Potter when they are forced to make their way in the world. Of course they also run into all kinds of trouble. Both are orphans whose home lives with uptight Aunts make the potential for adventure appealing. Both are more clever than the adults around them. Then again, both are fictional.

On this occasion, I was on my way home from a very wonderful event in Tucson where, among other things I learned about the home life of Morris and Stewart Udall, two impressive statesmen from recent American political history -- legendary, but not at all fictional. Their younger brother Burr was in attendance to recall their pioneer upbringing in a tiny Arizona town on a homestead with no plumbing and a stove that was burning around the clock. They would need to chop wood before school, milk the cows and chop wood again after school. Burr said he began these chores at the age of eight (and still does them, as far as I can tell).  His big sister Elma (a legend in her own right) was on hand to contradict him on most points, but on this point she concurred (except to comment that she refused to milk the cows). 

For some reason, I have not shared this story with my own eight-year-old who is hard-pressed to make his own bed, let alone chop wood. I have not told my 11-year-old about the lost boy either. I am resolved now, however, to prepare my children to be tougher and more independent than they are currently. I will also instruct them to go back where they started when they get lost, and get plenty of rest so they can keep their energy up and their wits about them if they find themselves wielding an axe. I don't think stranding them at the airport would be a great idea, but maybe we could get a cow?

Of course, I reasoned not too long ago that getting puppies would teach my boys responsibility and humanity – and it has, but I have to admit the puppies are, well, easy (so far) and life is hard. I don’t want to manufacture difficult situations to test them, and I’m sure I won’t have to. Being lost and finding your own way is not always a bad thing. Working hard, really hard, can be good. That said, I don’t think I’ll be giving an axe to my eight-year-old just yet.