I wasn’t a rebellious kid, but I did attempt a typical “I’m running away from home” operation in 1979 when I was nine. I don’t recall why I threatened Mom with my indignant departure, but it probably centered around her refusal to let me walk alone to 7-11 to play Space Invaders and buy Jolly Ranchers with the roll of pennies my grandpa gave me.
Like any kid with a serious mission to hit the road, I grabbed a brown paper grocery bag. I packed everything I’d need to be on the move for several weeks: a few stuffed animals, a loaf of bread, a package of Oscar Mayer bologna, and a squeeze bottle of yellow mustard.
My mother sat in the kitchen, casually allowing me to prepare for my grand exit. I thought she’d try to stop me, but she asked, “Do you have everything you need?” I ignored her as I left, slamming the screen door to punctuate my resentment.
Our little white house was across the street from a tree-filled hill leading up to a title company’s parking lot. I didn’t know what a title company did, but I assumed it was related to books. I climbed the hill, my sweaty paw gripping my crumpled “luggage.” My grubby flip-flops slid on the carpet of needles as I navigated the upward path through the massive Georgia pines. When I reached the top, I sat on the curb of the lot, making sure I was concealed, but able see my house. I was brilliant.
I wasted no time unpacking my travel food, assembling a sandwich with THREE slices of bologna instead of the one mom served. Ha! Take that! As I ate, I carefully peered through breaks in the trees—no sign of Mom. My mind shuffled between wishing she’d come after me and planning my hobo life.
I remember hearing stories about my grandpa jumping into empty rail cars and traveling the country with nothing but his wits and a sense of adventure. (As I later learned, he also had a flask of hooch and a penchant for “taking breaks” from his family.)
Naturally he carried a bindle stick stuffed with meager belongings. I imagined him squatting by a campfire, heating a can of beans with comrades he’d met on his travels. They’d sing cowboy songs and sleep under the stars. I could have that life, too! Maybe I’d jump off the train in a backwoods town and find a job as a dishwasher in a greasy spoon. My mom had only just let me wash the after-dinner dishes, but I needed to stand on a stool to reach the sink. They’d probably have stools. I’d only need to earn enough to pay for room and board. And the occasional Space Invaders game. And roller skate rental. The town would have a library, right? In my haste, I’d forgotten to pack Otherwise Known as Sheila the Great. I was only on chapter three. I hoped my mom would realize it was was a library book and return it. I didn’t want to have to pay a fine.
As I took the last bite of my road grub, I decided the vagabond life might be too complicated; plus, I only had enough sandwich supplies for a few days. I repacked my bag and butt-scooted my way down the hill. (I didn’t want to lose a flip-flop.)
I casually entered the house. My mom sat at the kitchen table, smoking a cigarette and working on a crossword puzzle. She didn’t say a word as I quietly returned the leftover bologna, bread, and mustard to the fridge, went straight to my room, and closed the door. She would not get any satisfaction from me. As far as she knew, I was taking a break and would head back out later. I unpacked my stuffed animals, grabbed my book, and stretched out on my bed.
Years later, my mother told me she could see me through the trees eating the bologna sandwich. She also shared that my “on the run” operation lasted a total of 15 minutes.
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