Runaways

1973

My older brother and I ran away from home one lazy Saturday afternoon. We were seven and six years old, respectively. We were horsing around the house and in an effort to mix in some excitement, I guess, he casually said to Mom Klem, “I’m running away from home.”

Looking admiringly at my big brother and then to mom, I added, “Me too.”

Mom Klem, not to be outdone by our bravado responded, “Wait. I’ll make you sandwiches for the road.”

As the sandwiches were being prepared for the aspiring vagabonds, we grabbed our money jars, containing upwards of $1 each, and a popsicle from the freezer. Sandwiches completed with the crusts sliced off and handed over to us. Friendly good byes and we walked out the door.

Popsicle ingestion was completed shortly thereafter and the sticks were placed in a slowly moving rivulet of water flowing in the street adjacent to the curb. Somebody’s sprinkler system was clearly outdoing itself and creating this wasteful flow. Watching our popsicle sticks navigate the gentle current around leaves, miniature-scale dirt sandbars, and occasional litter we walked at an appropriately slow rate to prevent outpacing the floaters.

Sandwiches, peanut butter and strawberry jelly, were initiated and quickly consumed. Having become bored with the sticks and this running away from home business, the sticks were allowed to flow down a drain.

We turned around and walked the three blocks back home to the one story Spanish-style home and entered through the back door. Standing on a kitchen chair my older brother stretched and placed our money jars back to their place in the cupboard next to the refrigerator above the kitchen passthrough.

Mom Klem was in the next room and heard the sequence of activities. Smiling, she was happy to have her young erstwhile vagrants again under her care, custody, and control.


No further runaway attempts were made.
-klem