The Daughter has been going to her summer camp in a nearby park, Ridgefield by name. She decided to ride her scooter there. It was in a location she could keep an eye on it.
About a month ago, it was raining, and they had to move to the alternate site, which happened to be her usual elementary school. Her scooter was in the hallway next to one of her counselor’s bicycles, but not visible to her. You can guess what happened at the end of the day.
There was a police report filed, and, allegedly, there was a film being reviewed, but nothing has come of this, to date.
She was sad that her scooter is gone, of course, but it’s more than someone who she probably knows, perhaps not well, but still, took her vehicle. It made her understandably wary about returning to the camp. She looked sad a lot the next few days, especially getting up on weekday mornings.
I know she remembered when my previous bicycle got stolen about three years ago that I went through a period of anger, frustration, and grief, especially after the then-custodian of my church actually saw some kid riding it a few days later, pursuing him in his car, but the kid went down some alleyway. I held onto the hope of recovery for even longer than I might have.
Two or three days after her incident, I told her a story, a true story, how I was at my home in Binghamton when I was about 13. My parents had a couple over from church, and they had a son who was about 10 who I knew, of course, but we weren’t what I’d call friends. I was required to entertain him while the grownups chatted.
I took him to my (tiny) room and showed him my baseball cards, and my collection of US coins, which were in these blue folders, in all the denominations. At some point, after they left, maybe not until the next day, I noticed that my half dollars were gone! I looked everywhere, but, as I said, it was a little room in a little house. I KNEW this kid had taken my half dollars. It wasn’t just that they were worth $12 or $15 face value; it was that it was my stuff that was stolen AFTER I had played the unwilling but gracious host. But my parents said I couldn’t accuse him; I had no proof.
After I told that story, The Daughter sat on my lap and cuddled. She did ask if maybe my sisters could have taken them as a joke, but I noted that the “joke” would be almost 50 years old by now.