A Little Bit Like Home

Return to Montgomery Ward

People sometimes tell  stories about childhood memories that scarred them for life. The stories vary. Some involve being told to clean their plates because children were starving somewhere far away. Others include a tapping sound on the bedroom window that turned out to be a tree branch, a cat accidentally shut in a closet and mistaken for a monster, or the most terrifying department store experience of all: thinking your mother has abandoned you forever when she is actually one clothing rack away.

When I hear these stories, I try to be sympathetic. But deep down, I know the truth. None of those people were boxed up and nearly shipped back to Montgomery Ward.

I suppose I was 4 or 5 years old. It was a Sunday afternoon, about this time of year. Naps had been taken, which meant the grown-ups were rested and the children had returned to full operating capacity. At some point, I managed to get into enough mischief to earn time in the chair.

The chair was not formally part of the criminal justice system, but to a small child it felt like a harsh sentence. You sat there until Dad decided you could get up. It may have been five minutes. It may have been seven. In my mind, it was open-ended detention with no chance of parole.

While I was suffering in this manner, Dad began flipping through the Montgomery Ward catalog. Turning a few pages, he began reading aloud.

“Here’s Johnny,” he said. “Johnny is 5 years old. He always cleans his plate, knows how to tie his shoes, never complains, and keeps his room clean. Johnny washes his hands, hangs up his towel, and puts his shoes away without being told.”

For all I knew, Montgomery Ward sold replacement children right there between the socks and the small appliances. About that time, Mom came into the room. Dad showed her the picture of Johnny and read part of the description again. Mom agreed Johnny sounded like a nice little boy. This was troubling.

Dad suggested maybe they should trade for Johnny.

I looked at my brother, Joe. Joe, in my opinion, was the obvious trade. I do not remember what I had done to end up in the chair, but I am sure it had something to do with Joe. Surely, if anyone was going back to Montgomery Ward, it would be him.

Then one of my siblings mentioned we had a large box that might work. This is where the situation escalated. Almost instantly, that box appeared in the living room. A flashlight, a coloring book, and a few supplies were placed inside and breathing holes were cut into the side. Then the item to be returned was added.

Me.

As I was lowered into the box, someone told me to hold still. So I did, because apparently I had decided to cooperate with my own shipment. I announced that I did not want to go back to Montgomery Ward, but my pleas fell on deaf ears. The flaps on the top of the box closed.

Inside the darkness of the box, I found the flashlight and switched it on. The glow was disappointing, the kind produced by batteries that had already lived long and useful lives.

Then the box was lifted. Things were getting serious now. People talk about the fight-or-flight response. I chose both.

I began punching the lid with no success. I turned my attention to the breathing holes and managed to get one fist through. Looking back, I am sure the scene resembled a Warner Bros. cartoon with the shaking box containing the Tasmanian Devil and small appendages rapidly appearing from unexpected places.

Within seconds, I tore a hole large enough to begin freeing myself. I had survived.

The ordeal had lasted only a few minutes, but I emerged a changed boy. I resolved that I could be like Johnny. I would hang up my towel, put away my shoes, and clean my plate. I would become the kind of boy Montgomery Ward would have been proud to keep in stock.

Later that afternoon, we followed our usual Sunday routine and went to Grandma and Grandpa’s house. There would be television, popcorn, apples, and the usual bowl of ice cream.

Grandma asked if I had enjoyed my day. I proceeded to tell her about “them” sending me back to Montgomery Ward. And the worst part? They put me in that box with a coloring book.

And no crayons.

Tom Brand is a St. Joseph, Missouri, writer whose latest book, “You Have To Leave If You Want To Come Back,” is available at RichardsonPress.com. He has since confirmed Montgomery Ward is no longer accepting returns on small boys.