Running Away

I’d threatened many times to join the circus or go live on a raft on the Mississippi like Tom and Huck. But that wasn’t the case this time. It was some since-forgotten atrocity—homework? weekend chores? (I still hate vacuuming)—that led to my decision to run away forever.

I was surprised at the coolness of Mom’s reaction:

“Are you sure?”

“Yes!”

“OK.”

That was it. Just “OK.” And then she proceeded to pack my lunch. She was obviously anxious to get rid of me.

I stomped about in my bedroom, slamming necessities—my sacred texts (Huckleberry Finn, Call of the Wild, The Three Musketeers), leftover Valentine’s Day candy—into a makeshift rucksack (my pillowcase), then headed for the front door, shouting, “I’m going now!”

Silence.

“Forever!”

“OK.”

Slam!

It was nearly two miles to the end of the flower field, the last vestige of rural life in our booming Orange County suburb. I’d…