Here’s another story from my mother, Dorothy H. Adler.
He was large for his age, which was really not large at all, for he was too young to go to school. He was blonde and blue-eyed and usually wore an engaging smile from ear to ear. But these days he was lonely; it was hard to be the youngest when everyone else climbed into the big yellow bus and went out to conquer unknown worlds.
It was a busy season for mother. Well, what season is not busy for a mother with young children? Usually she knew right where the children were playing, but today she glanced at the clock with the start and realized she hadn’t seen Sonny for at least an hour – perhaps more.
He was so reliable, even for a little tot, that danger did not enter her mind at first, but as she looked here, there, everywhere and he was not there, she panicked. Trying to keep her voice calm, she phoned Grandmother, though not really expecting him to walk that far.
She let the receiver fall back into its cradle and began searching for a police number to call. Something dreadfully surely had befallen her baby. With the number partly dialed, another thought struck. There’s only one place she hadn’t looked. Better check there first. The barn was off-limits because it could be reached only by going through the barnyard which might hold nothing worse than a frisky lamb, but a not-so-calm bull might be there. Little boys who are lonely sometimes forget about limits. They don’t really understand danger, so it was not surprising that Sonny had found his way safely to the barn.
His occupation was a bit more surprising. He had heard Father say, “The barn needs cleaning; I’m going to have to get after that tomorrow.” Little hands, when armed with an old broom and a small scoop shovel, can move a lot of dirt. The pile he had mounded up was nearly as tall as he was.
The blond hair wore a coating of dust, the blue eyes gleamed impishly, the engaging smile reached from ear to ear when he said, “I’m helping Daddy clean the barn floor. See my pile of dirt!”