The night we left my sister at the drive-in in 1972

I can't imagine such a thing happening today: In the early '70s, when I was 10, my family left my baby sister Mary behind at the drive-in theater. As I explain in my humorous memoir, "Misadventures of a 1970s Childhood," the outing started off well enough. My father spent several minutes searching for a spot, as it took time to find a window speaker that worked. We got out of the car as he opened the station-wagon tailgate and folded down the back seats, then got back in. We began devouring corn curls, potato chips, onion dip and pretzels, and washed them down with orange, cherry and grape Regent soda pop. The blue sky soon fell dark and the film projector began rattling. Black-and-white numbers — "5, 4, 3, 2, 1..." — flashed onto the screen. Yellowed footage advertised hot dogs, popcorn and other concession items we could never get our father to buy. It didn't take long before we began squabbling over pillows, blankets and positioning. My sisters complained that my big noggin was blocking their view, and so I was banished to the back of the car. As I recollect, we went to see "Paper Moon" that night — a movie about a Depression-era con man and a young girl who travel around taking people's money — but my sisters say it was "Herbie the Love Bug." Whatever the case, I was so busy devouring snacks — we didn't have them often, so I was taking advantage of my good fortune — I didn't care about the movie. My stomach soon was so full that I ended up on my back, groaning in agony. It's important to understand how everyone was situated. My father sat in the driver's seat. My mother sat to his right, holding my 10-month-old sister Jennifer. Mom "shooshed" us constantly to keep us from waking the baby. In the back, under the pile of blankets and pillows, were my sisters Kathy, 15; Krissy, 13; Lisa, 7; and Mary, 5. I sat near the open tailgate where I had been banished. Throughout the first and second movies, there was plenty of sleeping, snoring, waking, squabbling, "shooshing," complaining ("Mommy, Tommy stinks!") and restroom usage. Unbeknownst to everyone, Mary — who always had a touch of wanderlust — had slipped out the back of the car to go to the restroom just as the second movie was ending. Preoccupied with my aching belly — I was groaning pretty loudly by then — I didn't notice her slip by me. My father, always eager to beat the rush, hurriedly packed up the cooler and fired up the car. My mother counted everyone, as usual, but preoccupied with the baby she mistook a lump of blankets for Mary. It didn't yet occur to any of us that Mary was not in the car. Off we drove as the final credits began to roll, my dad eager to be the first out of the lot. I don't recall how far we got before Lisa shouted, "Where's Mary?" My mother, trying not to disturb the baby, instinctively began "shooshing." It took five more minutes before Lisa persuaded everyone that Mary was not in the car. Panic overcame us. My father made a hard U-turn and floored it. Our Plymouth Fury station wagon roared down the road like the car in "Chitty Chitty Bang Bang." We fishtailed as we hit the gravel parking lot. The lot was half empty, but the car that had been next to ours was still there. Mary stood next to it, as she held the hand of somebody else's dad — a dad who waited patiently for the idiot family that lost one of its kids. My sisters and I laugh every time someone brings up the incident — in part because such a thing could never happen today. Today's parents, terrified by social media and cable news, never let their kids out of their sight. But lots of big families lost kids in the '70s. The Kriegers, a family of five, left their middle son Donny at a gas station in Indiana once — they had to drive two hours back to retrieve him. Mr. Ruff, father of four girls and a boy, returned home from a baseball game one daughter short — she was still there and fine when he raced back to get her. The Millers arrived home to realize they left their youngest son behind at a campground in Ohio. They had to drive three hours back to get him. Today, such an incident would bring police attention, a Child Protective Services investigation, possible fines or endangerment charges and a permanent mark on the family's record. To my family's credit, though, Mary was the only child we ever lost. And the only reason I'm telling this story now is that the statute of limitations has finally run out on the night we left her behind at the drive-in theater. Copyright 2026 Tom Purcell, distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate. See Tom Purcell's syndicated column, humor books and funny videos featuring his dog, Thurber, at TomPurcell.com. Email him at Tom@TomPurcell.com.