I was nine years old the first time I decided to run away from home. It had been an unfortunate day full of bad choices. After my friend Kathleen proposed we play with her Ken and Barbie dolls in my backyard, I suggested that Ken and Barbie heat up the already hot summer day with a campfire. My best friend reluctantly agreed and as I dashed in the house for matches, she gathered kindling.
Lighting the matches was always my favorite part and as I held it in my hand, transfixed by the flame, my friend screamed in a rather hysteric tone, “Throw it on the sticks!” I flung the match down and stared as flames began stretching toward the top of Barbie and Ken’s recreational vehicle while smoke billowed out and around toward the front of the house. Kathleen and I were so paralyzed by the fire’s hypnotic powers that we never heard my younger sister’s footsteps. After my sister quickly surveyed the situation, she announced in a sing-songy voice, “I’m telling Mom when she gets home.” As I stomped out the fire, I felt my saddle shoes melting, but even worse, I knew I had no choice but to run away from home. The punishment always fit the crime at my house and I had definitely committed a felony. I planned to pack and be gone before my mother’s 1964 Ford pulled in the driveway.
I stuffed eight pairs of underwear and a flashlight into a small suitcase and quietly shut the front door as I left my old life behind. I made it a block before I sat on the curb and contemplated my next move. Where would I go? How would I support myself? How would I eat? What if I got into a car accident and all eight pairs of underwear were dirty? My mother would be horrified. I was only nine years old, but even then I thought realistically—except when it came to fire. I enjoyed a few more minutes of freedom then reluctantly, I headed home. I would face my punishment with the grit and determination that only a hardened criminal possesses.
When I heard the recent story about Steven Slater, the JetBlue flight attendant who decided to run away from work after a bad day, I couldn’t help but wonder why I didn’t think to make a more dramatic exit that day from my house. Little did I know that I could have been the talk of the neighborhood—or maybe even the national news—if I had grabbed two root beers and glided gracefully down the slide attached to my backyard swing set with my suitcase on my lap and a grin on my face.
To be honest, part of me thinks that Steven Slater is my hero for life—and the other part of me thinks, “What? In this economy?” Either way you view his exit from the airplane that day, I think we can all relate to his experience. Who hasn’t had a day when they wanted to change their name to Thelma, find a friend named Louise, rent a convertible, and head down the highway without a real destination in mind except “anywhere away from here?”
The fictional folktale character Uncle Remus once said, “You can’t run away from trouble. There ain’t no place that far.” It’s true—our problems are like loyal dogs—they follow us everywhere. As I trudged home that hot summer afternoon to face the music, I realized that what I really needed to change was how I reacted to life’s greatest challenges.
- Vicky De Coster - www.wackywomanhood.com
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