It had to be before we sold the Chevy in ‘72, so the oldest my little brother could have been was 6. We were coming home from a road trip in our family’s 1963 Chevy Biscayne wagon. Dad was upset for some unknown reason, it couldn’t have been because of us kids. We always behaved so well stuck 4 across in the back seat for who knows how many hours, so it couldn’t have been us. Nonetheless, Dad was not happy, we’d been threatened several times with being forced to walk the rest of the way home, but since we were closer than our elementary school that was no longer a threat.
We were playing that game where whenever Dad took a turn, we’d all slide into it and squoosh the kid at the end into the door. We were making the final turn onto our street, all pushing on my little brother who happened to be on the outside of the turn. I guess we pushed a little too hard because the door popped open and he vanished out the door into oblivion.
“Shut Up, we’re almost home!”
“I said SHUT UP!”
We pull into the driveway, all get out and Dad asks “Where’s your brother?”
“Uh, he fell out at the corner.”
Now, in my memory Dad came back with “Well, why didn’t you tell me?”, but since he is a smart guy I’m pretty sure he immediately figured out that we did try to tell him. The entire family starts to run down the street, just to meet little brother two houses down. He had hit the road, rolled into the front lawn of the house on the corner, got up and walked home. Nothing broken, nothing damaged.