November 22, 2004
Running Away From Home
Have you ever run away from home? I mean, really? And I don't mean running away at 15 to shack up with that meth dealer from the Jiffy-Lube, I mean an honestly innocent child's version, at 6 or 8 or 10.
I ran away at 10. Unfortunately, we had moved to a farm the previous year, so while it is easy to want to escape from Bumfuck, Georgia, Bumfuck, Georgia is a long ways from anywhere.
I was not feeling the love, as Four of Five, and my eldest sister had just been graced with a convertible 1966 Mustang, and my older brother had a fancy electric guitar, and I was still angling for that trumpet, but I didn't have any game with the rents.
I swear I actually packed some clothes in a towel, wrapped it on the end of a broomstick, and started walking. We had a long private dirt road up the the White Gate, then you had to take a right turn and walk about another mile up a county maintained dirt road to reach Georgia 17. I made it to the highway, and hunkered down by the Central of Georgia railroad tracks that parallelled it, contemplating my options.
To the south was seven miles of bad road just to get through Tusculum to Guyton. Another 35 or so to Savannah, where I actually knew people who didn't sleep with barnyard animals. To the north was Egypt, then Oliver, then another stretch of bad road just to reach Statesboro, and I didn't know anybody there.
It was pretty cold, so I snuggled down with my towel and clothes to brainstorm the situation next to the tracks, and fell asleep. I don't know how long I lay there. Could have been five hours, could have been thirty minutes. But my mother eventually found me, and brought me home, and fed me Sealtest ice cream. Doted on me a bit, too, if I may brag.
Why do I mention this now? I have no idea, other than the fact the three girls in my life are screaming in the next room over the ending of a dance competition solo, phone calls to dance instructors with recriminations and threats are being made, there ain't no supper, one of the cats puked in the carpeting, I have siding issues on my house, and laying by the side of a railroad track with a pillow of my favorite clothes sounds positively Kerouac to me right now.
You mean Blogtoberfest doesn't count?
Posted by: Mamamontezz at November 23, 2004 12:14 AMYup. The Swineherd did just that. It thinks It was about 7. Told the Mom It was outta there.
She asked if It might want to wait 'til its father and brothers got back before It hit the bricks. It agreed - never one to upset the womenfolk.
Anyway, wasn't on a farm road. The Swineherd was looking to book a ticket out of Laguardia; so, although It was running away from the whole bourgeois show, It still needed Mom's technical expertise with travel arrangements.
Needless to say, the dark storm clouds of that afternoon blew over. Swineherd unpacked its suitcase and stayed awhile.
As a matter of fact It's still there - 29 years later.
Ooooooh, dance competition. If I ever have kids, my punishment for being bad for the last 29.9 years is that my kids (male or female) will want to take dance lessons for eighteen years. I will have to talk to the Psycho Dance Moms. And the Psycho Cheerleading Moms. And I will have to take a lot of happy drugs to deal with it.
Posted by: sugarmama at November 23, 2004 9:37 AM