The yellow ribbons are for others now.
The ribbons that flew from every utility pole, every door, and many a mailbox in October 2000 are long since gone, faded, shredded by storms, or just taken down and thrown away as people forgot about a little boy called Buddy who disappeared on a beautiful October afternoon. They’ve been replaced by other yellow ribbons through the years, as soldiers deployed or people came home and life went on.
But 24 years ago, they were a sign of hope.
Tristen “Buddy” Myers was four years old. He lived with his Great Aunt Donna and her husband John outside of Roseboro, on Microwave Tower Road. Buddy’s mom Raven was 15 when she had him, not much more than a baby herself. She made some very bad choices in life, so Buddy went to live with his grandmother, who was too sick to take care of the growing, energetic little boy.
Her sister Donna was retired, and looking forward to John’s retirement, but they never hesitated when asked if they could take Buddy. In fact, John gave him his nickname.
Buddy went to live with Donna and John, and that was where his life really began.
John took him for rides in the over-the-road truck John drove for a living. Buddy had two dogs who were his best friends. The neighbor had horses he liked to visit. Buddy lived down a country road where the traffic was slow and the grass was soft and the neighbors looked out for each other. He was clean, warm, had enough to eat and had people who loved him.
Then one day, he disappeared.
Miss Donna was tired that day, and when Buddy collapsed into a nap on the living room floor of the neat little brick house, Donna was grateful. She stretched out on the couch, a few feet away, to catch her own nap.
When she awoke, Buddy was gone.
Like all little boys, he would wander sometimes. I was infamous for doing so, but I was often found in a deep sleep behind a chair or door. I was also occasionally found across the dirt road feeding the horse, the mule and the meanest bull in the county. At least once I took off and walked several miles to the sweet potato packing house where my brother as working because I felt our sister was too young to be taking care of me. I think I proved my point in that case.
Donna was upset, but she didn’t immediately panic. She began checking Buddy’s usual hiding places around the house, then the neighbor’s barn. No sign of Buddy or his dogs.
Donna called 911, and as firefighters and law enforcement began searching for the little boy, volunteers turned up as well.
Miss Rhonda and I were staying at my parents’ house that night – I’m honestly not sure why we didn’t go to our place around the corner – and we were getting ready for bed when Papa called up the stairs. I’d heard the phone ring, but my stories were clear for the night. I figured the editor had a question about one sent in by my mother or dad.
There was a little kid missing near Roseboro, and he wanted me there. If I could hurry, I could get a story for the last edition.
Rhonda and I blasted through the night and up Microwave Tower Road, following a couple of trucks that spat dust into the blue-black night sky. It was cool, but the mosquitoes were still out in force.
We topped the little rise by Donna and John’s house, and flashlight beams were lancing the woods, the fields, and the sky. People were yelling “Bobby! Bobby!” They hadn’t learned his nickname yet.
All of us would before it was over.
I was relieved a while back to find someone else who still feels the same way I do about the disappearance of Buddy Myers. None of us knew him, outside of the family or maybe a few neighbors, but he was everybody’s child. The fellow I talked to gets a hitch in his voice as I do whenever the little boy’s name is mentioned.
Little kids don’t just vanish like an assistant in a magic act. Little kids hide, or get lost, or sometimes get kidnapped, but somebody, somewhere sees something and calls the police and there’s closure. Most times the child is fine. Sometimes someone is arrested, and things don’t turn out like we hope they will.
But this time, there was nothing.
I filed my short story via telephone, and Rhonda and I helped with the search. We rode with a pair of Wildlife officers, and looked in an abandoned barn. We finally went home, confident that we would miss the joyful reunion of Donna, John and Buddy.
The next day, the world changed.
There was no reunion, just an operations center set up at a closed Ford dealership. There were churches and individuals bringing food for teams of searchers that began streaming in from everywhere. I interviewed some from West Virginia, Tennessee, and Missouri. There were soldiers, Marines, State Troopers in a helicopter, law enforcement and police and firefighters and rescue personnel from everywhere. Hunters on four wheelers who knew the area led teams down miles of trails. I was told a decade later that potential suspects were rousted out of their homes and attended “come to Jesus” meetings with law enforcement for whom Miranda had become a very low priority.
Media began pouring in, and the Old Man and I worked the story together, while our editor sent a photographer and later, a spare reporter.
In the midst of it all was a tiny, crying woman with graying hair, and another woman who poked the chief deputy in the chest and demanded he answer a question. I had literally known the chief since I was a baby and he was a deputy, and I was shocked that anyone would be so rude to such a good man.
That was my introduction to Monica Caison, a woman I now call a friend, a hero as far as I am concerned. The founder of the CUE Center for Missing Persons didn’t pull any punches, and didn’t take no for an answer. She was there to advocate for and protect the family, and ensure everybody involved was doing everything possible to find that little boy.
The search went on for three days, before a storm blew in from the ocean, bringing high winds, cold rain and the potential for tornadoes. My old friend the chief deputy called everyone together, thanked them, and said the search was being scaled back. Aside from a footprint that might have been weeks old, and a toy dinosaur, there was no sign of Buddy Myers. Some of the searchers stayed on, anyway, but most went on home. The dealership was closed again, the tents disappeared from the grass beside the parking lots, and nothing remained but the yellow ribbons for a little boy.
Buddy’s dogs walked up to a press conference that Sunday afternoon, clean and healthy, adding even more mystery to the heartbreak we all felt, Donna and John most of all.
Buddy would be 28 years old now. He might be a truck driver, a soldier, a doctor, a teacher, a professional athlete. He might even have kids the age he was when he disappeared.
We don’t know.
Monica taught me something during the search for Buddy Myers, something that still weighs on my heart today, every time I hear an Amber Alert or a Silver Alert, or a missing person report in my crime sheets.
Every missing person is somebody’s child.
That was one of the first quotes I ever had from her.
On Oct. 5, 2000, a four year old little boy went missing from his great aunt’s house. Before Donna and John adopted him, Buddy was really nobody’s child. They changed that.
On Oct. 5, Buddy was not just a missing person.
He became everybody’s child.
Buddy Myers’ disappearance is considered an active cold case by the Sampson County Sheriff’s Office. Contact the SCSO or the State Bureau of Investigation if you have any information.
