Afton Wyoming vs. Salt Lake City

When I was nearly seven years old my family moved from the rural farming community of Afton, Wyoming, to the big city (at least for me it was big) of Salt Lake. I remember that we moved into a small six-plex with one bedroom, a front room, dining room, kitchen, and bathroom. My parents used an upright piano to provide a semblance of privacy for their bedroom (which was the dining room). There were five of us (me and my two sisters) in this cramped living space. We lived about a block from Whittier Elementary School where I would be attending.

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I don’t remember my mother walking me to school before I started this new school but I’m sure she must have done this to help me avoid getting lost. But I was from a rural area and my point of reference was farms, barns, barbwire fences, cows, sheep, horses, familiar homes housing my dad’s brothers and sisters, haystacks, and pastures. I didn’t have any experience with houses, cars, and streets going all different directions.

The noise in a city is different than what I was used to in Afton. Instead of hearing cows and horses and sheep in the background I heard cars and trucks. I was not used to the way the city’s air smelled of smog and smoke and other contaminants. I was more familiar with the smell of fresh clean air (I must admit that city folk didn’t like our smell of cows and other animals) but I missed it.

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With this background I remember my first day at the city school. My teacher was Mrs. Larson, and she was nice and very friendly, but I was still nervous. I didn’t know anyone, which meant I didn’t have any friends and when I did make friends, I had nothing in common with them. You wouldn’t know it now but back then I was shy and introverted. But needless to say, I survived that day until school ended. I walked out the first-grade door and got lost (I entered the school at one end of the building and came out the other end and was disorientated). Remember, I was new to the city and everywhere I looked I saw potential streets running east and west, and north and south, any one of which may be where I lived. Busy cars everywhere. Traffic guards trying to get me to cross the street (which I did but it was the wrong place). I was lost. I was scared. I didn’t want to die in some faraway place with no familiar face with me (OK, this may be a slight exaggeration but it’s a good one).

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I remember standing on the corner, in front of a little store, crying and trying to figure out where I lived. Nothing looked familiar. "Why did my dad drag me out of Afton to a place like this?” I wondered. Then a miracle of miracles happened. A neighbor boy, two years older than me, recognized me and took pity on me and told me he would show me how to get home. Finally, I met someone who seemed like he liked me. He walked home with me and showed me where I lived and he did this as an act of service, never teasing me or making me feel bad about getting lost.

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The next day I went back to school and sure enough as soon as the closing bell sounded, and when we were sent home, I made the same mistake and got the same results. I was lost again. I stood in front of that store for a second time crying for two days in a row and sure enough my friend was there again to help me home. 

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I don’t remember if I got lost on the third day, but it is a total possibility. If I did it would be the last time because I learned my mistake (going through one door of the school and out another) and I got oriented to the city (at least that part of the city). I have never forgotten this small act of kindness that happened to me when I was a small boy lost in a big city. I remained good friends with that neighbor boy as well as his five brothers and still have fond memories of each of them.

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One resiliency skill we as parents should make sure we teach our children is that a small act of service can bring great rewards to the lives of those who need them and receive them.