Nobody's perfect. Everybody loses stuff. Unless you're lucky to have a personal assistant with you 24/7 to remind you of every little thing, you're bound to falter, forget or misplace something. If you're me, it happens far too often, leading to many a 'senior' moment, even back in the day during my 20's!
Sometimes it can be something as simple as placing a plate of Christmas cookies on the roof of a car, strapping the child into the car seat, and then absent-mindedly driving away while the cookies are scattered to the four winds. Yes, I've done this, and my husband and I still laugh about it. What a holiday feast those birds must have enjoyed!
On the other hand, a moment of forgetfulness can affect an entire population, like a local high school band, for example. Which leads me to this, a moment which I spent the last 40 years avoiding. I've decided it's time to bring it out of the mothballs of my mind and out in the open for the amusement of all.
It was a 1981 Scituate (Rhode Island) High School band trip. But not just any band trip. It was the band's first major trip out-of-state to compete in an international festival. In other words, this was a HUGE DEAL for these kids and the entire town of Scituate. Yet, it would be my first and last time as chaperone, ever.
My husband David (now known to all as Dr. Neves) was band director at the time and organized this eagerly anticipated Washington, D.C. band festival. With a group of such high caliber, there were great expectations of success and excellence. Excited students, parent chaperones and this band director's young wife filled two busses for the long ride ahead to the event lasting several days. Exact details escape me, but with the assistance of David’s superior memory skills, I’ve been able to piece together the chain of events that followed.
The kids had fun and worked hard. Days were filled with a little sightseeing, rehearsals and social networking with other student musicians from around the world. Finally, after some excellent top-rate performances, the Scituate band won a much-deserved GOLD MEDAL, fittingly awarded during a grand ceremony on the final evening of the event.
The kids couldn't wait to return home to proclaim their glory and show off their shimmering golden disc. As the busses started home, excitement was in the air as proud students and parents reminisced about the students' achievement. And did I mention how BIG A DEAL that GOLD MEDAL was to these young people and to the whole town? Of course, as I was so emphatically reminded just how HUGE while recalling the details for this story.
As is typical on these long rides, both busses stopped at the first of two highway service areas for a food and pit stop so we could all stretch and re-fuel. I ordered and consumed a McDonald’s fast food meal of some sort, visited the rest room, and re-boarded the bus. A few hours later, both busses pulled into rest stop no. 2 for another pit stop. I reached under the seat for my handbag and my heart stopped (figuratively speaking). My bag wasn't there. Not below me, not beside me, not overhead. I suddenly had a horrible sick feeling, wondering ... did I .... ? Is it possible ... ? No, I couldn’t have! I was in a silent panic. My most valuable piece of travel gear had gone MIA.
Apparently, when I re-boarded the bus back at rest stop no. 1, my handbag did not! It woefully occurred to me that I left the bag behind in the ladies rest room back at the McDonald’s. I could see it in my mind, the bag hanging by its strap on the restroom door hook. Not wanting to cause a ruckus, I leaned to David next to me and whispered, "I think I left my pocketbook at the McDonald’s." I don't remember his exact reaction, but I'm sure it wasn't anything resembling warm and fuzzy.
But. wait. That's not the worst of it! Inside that handbag was the band’s grand prize - the GOLD MEDAL, which my trusting husband had foolishly given me to hold for safekeeping. (We were only married four years at that point; he wasn’t yet fully aware of my habit of losing things.) To say I was mortified and horrified beyond belief is an understatement. As I slid lower and lower in my seat in the hopes that I could just disappear, David began the process of relaying to the group the sad tale and figuring out what the next step would be in retrieving my bag.
The first task was to call McDonald’s, have them locate the bag and hold it for us. You might think that bag would have disappeared in a flash. Just imagine - someone enjoying a night on the town at my expense while sporting a rather large, round piece of gold-toned bling. Miraculously, though, the bag was found containing all its valuables and turned in to the restaurant staff by a thoughtful, honest soul, reinforcing the notion that there are decent people in the world. This was great news, I thought! They could simply ship the bag to us, and that would be that. The medal would reach the band at some point in the not-too-distant future, and all would be well.
But let's be real. This WAS the first time Scituate's band had ever excelled to this level and earned something so incredible - an international award! Heck! They might as well have won an OSCAR - that's how important it was!
To leave the return of the medal in the hands of a fast food chain was unacceptable. To return home without such a precious symbol of triumph was simply UNTHINKABLE. So it was decided. One bus (carrying half the band, the band director and his humiliated wife) would turn around to retrieve the bag a hundred miles in the other direction, while the second bus would continue the journey home.
Much time and many miles had passed by since that first McDonald's stop, and our bus had some serious ground to cover. The driver, fueled up on a lot of coffee and likely wishing he'd called in sick the day THIS job was assigned, broke several speed records to get us back to the restaurant, grab the bag-with-medal, and begin the return home. As the bus raced like a bat out 'a hell, I sat silently in my seat on the entire ride, wishing I was anywhere else. In my mind, I could hear the driver silently cursing me and all the eyes behind me shooting laser beams toward my back. In all actuality, the driver was more likely focused on not getting nabbed by the state police, and the folks behind me were probably asleep.
We finally met up with the second bus in Connecticut so the entire group could return to the school together. We finally rolled into town in the wee hours of the morning about four hours later than scheduled to a warm welcome by friends and family members. Dr. Neves tells me that it seemed like hundreds of well wishers came to meet us. To me, it's all a blur. All I know is that I couldn’t sneak away fast enough to the safety of our car, and I hoped no one recognized me in the crowd as the reason for the chaotic, late return. Of course, no one said anything, but I know they all knew!
To make matters worse, we later found out that the Scituate police and fire departments had been waiting at the town line to escort the busses to the high school in a grand parade of flashing lights. Oh, how that does hurt! Needless to say, with no band to greet and without the convenience of cell phone communication in those days, they gave up and returned to the station.
It’s been nearly 40 years since that fateful day, and though the memory has faded for most as a new generation emerged, I expect that the legend of Mrs. Neves and the Scituate Band Medal continues to live on in this town. David and I will occasionally run into an acquaintance who will recall (with a little wink of an eye) "THAT band trip". It still makes me break out in a cold sweat. I'm certain that the 1981 band kids are now fondly relating the story to their own kids.
I've spent 40 years trying to forget this event, and I seldom bring it up. Plus, as I noted earlier, I never chaperoned a trip after that. The humiliation left its mark. But it's time to shrug this off my shoulders once and for all. To all involved, I shall accept a large slice of humble pie and offer my apology for the whole mess, 40 years late.
Do I still misplace things? You bet! Ask my family. I could fill pages. But these days, you’ll now find the long strap of my handbag securely draped across my body and never removed until completing my trip.
Thanks for reading! If you like this story - or you were somehow involved with this fateful trip - feel free to share or comment. I can take it now.