Mom walked me to school that first day;  just a few city  blocks.  We lived in the middle of the block on Kalmea Street.  Walk up to State Street and turn right;  then it was only a few  blocks to the school.  Straight forward, easy, even for an eight-year-old who was reluctant to start in a new school again.  She showed me which door to come out of at the end of the day, "Go  to the right" she said, "it's only a few blocks to Kalmea and you can see our house from the corner".  I didn't like the idea of walking home alone;  I didn't like the idea of the new house, the new street, the new kids, the new school, and especially...walking home alone.  But I was a team player;  as much as I didn't like any of it, I would do my part again.

Mom was especially excited about me going to this school;  it was where she had gone to grade school and her fifth-grade teacher, Mr. French, was still teaching there.  I had met him when we were getting signed in the day before.  He remembered Mom and seemed to be genuinely pleased that her son would be attending his school, if not his actual class.  For a lot of you, that may not seem such an odd thing but to military families, it is very rare. 

We had moved to the new house just a few days before.  Mom and the Chief had been busy moving and re-settling from Norfolk, Virginia to San Diego.  I had been living with my Aunt and Grandma in El Cajon and going to school there for awhile (eight-year-olds don't figure time like grown-ups) and was happy to stay there.  But I was Mom's "little man"..(she and I had a special relationship because the Chief was gone so much.) It was her way of coercing me to do stuff she needed me to do.  Her "little man" would never let her down.  So there I was:  scared, reluctant, and totally unsure that I could get home on my own but reassuring mom that it was okay;  I could do it. 

I probably could have, too, if I hadn't gotten turned around and gone out the wrong door at the end of the day.  But I couldn't 'cause I didn't and that is how the adventure began.  I walked the three blocks and didn't see anything that looked familiar.  There should have been a little mom-and-pop convenience store on the corner and there wasn't.  I wasn't a dummy; I retraced my route to the school...went in the door...came out again and turned right.  I walked the three blocks again.  No Kalmea Street, no convenience store, not one thing that looked familiar.  So I did it again.  And again. 

There was a gas station on the second block (I didn't remember seeing it that morning) and there were a couple of guys in there that got curious after my second round-trip past them.  On the third trip one of them came out and asked me if I was lost.  At that point I was finally admitting to myself that another walk down that same route would not produce the results I wanted.  At the first show of kindness I lost it;  all the fear and frustration burst from me and I just broke down.  They brought me into the station and asked me if I knew my address...I didn't (couldn't even remember the name of the street)...did I know my phone number?...I didn't, but I did know my Grandma's phone number.  I realized then that if they got me to El Cajon I might be able to stay with Grandma and I wouldn't have to go through any of this again!  If you look at a map today, El Cajon and San Diego are all part of the same metropolitan area.  But in 1955, El Cajon was twenty miles out in the sticks.  The guys at the gas station didn't think I had walked there from El Cajon but they  did call Grandma (a "toll call"...in them days a toll call was long distance in the same zone...nevermind).  Grandma filled them in on my situation but she didn't know my address,either.  She said that they should call the cops.  So they did.

The Black and White showed up a few minutes later.  I was enjoying a popsicle from the station's freezer.  They grilled me and got as much info as they could, which was no more than the gas station guys had already told them.  Their decision was that since I must live in the area, they would drive around to see if I could see something familiar.  I asked if they could do the lights and siren but they didn't think that was a good idea. 

So we started at the school and drove around the block, then expanded the circle then expanded again.  I was diggin' riding around in a cop car, even without the lights and siren, but I wasn't seeing anything that looked like home.

I heard the cops discussing whether they should plan on taking me to my Grandma in El Cajon which I immediately voted "yes" on.  There was some back-and-forth on the radio about it when I saw my Mom and the Chief go by on a cross-street.  Dad's new '55 Chevy was Forest Green and I was sure it was them.  "That's my DAD!!"  I yelled.  The cops didn't hesitate;  they lit up the lights, flipped on the siren, and accelerated around the corner just like old Broderick Crawford.  In less than a block we were climbing up the back of Dad's Chevy. 

Inside the Chevy, things were not so joyous as they were in the cop car.  Mom had worried when I didn't get home before it was time to go pick up the Chief at the Navy base.  They were on their way back from the base.  They were planning on where to look for me when the cop car roared up behind them with the lights flashing and the siren blaring;  the Chief almost spilled his beer. 

The Cops made me sit in the car while they went up and checked out Mom and the Chief, who were furiously trying to hide the open beer cans.  When the police made it clear why they had stopped them, Mom came out of the car at a flat run...which was difficult for her 'cause she was supposed to be holding the open beers out of sight.  The cop on the driver's side whispered to the Chief to be a little more discreet with the beer in the future.

It was a happy ending.  By the time we got home the Chief had finally calmed down, Mom finally stopped crying and kissing me, and I finally got over the fear and panic of being lost.  A call was made to Grandma to let her know I was safe and sound.  Mom and the Chief discussed how I managed to get lost and how I would avoid doing it again.   We had a much too long discussion about adjusting to the new school and neighborhood and that in the future we would not be making anymore plays for returning to El Cajon (I guess the cops ratted me out on that one).

It was a different time.  I can't imagine allowing any of my grandchildren at any age walking around that neighborhood alone.  Nowdays people in gas stations sit behind bullet-proof glass and don't speak English anyway.  And the cops?  Taking time to drive a kid around to look for something familiar...don't see that happening.  But it was a lasting kind of memory.  The Chief told the story for years and in his version I played second- fiddle to the drama about the cops and the open containers and his panic.  Mom recalled the joy at finding me and the relief that I was okay.  Me?  I got my ride with the lights and siren...all things considered, it was a pretty good afternoon.

The house on Kalmia Street that we lived in is now under the north bound lanes of I-5...so is the school for that matter.  The convenience store is long gone.  It has been fifty-six years.  The last few times I have visited San Diego it hasn't seemed so much like my hometown anymore.  So much is different and my memory isn't sharp enough to pinpoint all the locations of my boyhood with certainty...I can't even remember breakfast let alone where I rode my bike fifty years ago.  But some memories remain vivid.  Thought I better write this one down while I stll had it.