At age 4, I got mad at my mother, packed up my red wagon, and ran away. Mother often reminded me that I was “her life’s work.” I think she realized this early on. Grandmother Tall had only been a widow for four years and mostly lived by herself in her house next to ours. As I stomped off, pulling my wagon down the sidewalk, I was hoping to pass by her house unnoticed. This was not to be — she was perched on the porch and called out to me in a cheerful voice, tempting me with a big sugar cookie. I was grumpy, full of self-pity, and still mad at my mother — but not mad enough to turn down a sugar cookie. As I think about this, it is entirely possible that my mother had called ahead for reinforcements. I told my grandmother that I was going “north.” She saw my wagon filled with pine kindling and socks and asked me what else I was taking for my trip. Confidently I announced that was all that I thought I needed. The tears welling up in her eyes made me think that she felt sorry for me. She teased me a little saying that I was a growing boy and that I probably would not get very far on sticks and socks. I thought she was helping me and tempted me with another sugar cookie. The pit stop only lasted a few minutes because at that age I only had the attention span of a pencil eraser. Grandmother Tall extended the visit with more sugar cookies and tried to appear to be serious as I explained what I was doing. I could tell she empathized with my plight. She understandingly wrinkled her brow and had a very concerned look on her face. I was sure she was laughing at my mother when she turned her head away, covering her mouth to muffle her soft giggling. She was on my side. Of course, she wouldn’t be laughing at me. Then she asked me why I was running away. When I told her that could not remember, she broke down into uncontrollable, sweet laughter and big sighs and could not speak for a few minutes. I can still see her sitting on the porch using her ruffled, floral apron to wipe the tears from her eyes. The sugar cookies were gone and the conversation was over. I marched off the porch, realizing that she was right — socks and kindling were not going to get me very far. As I pulled the wagon to the sidewalk, I faced the decision of turning right to go back home for supper or turning left, where I would have to face the unknown, cold and cruel world north of the Rigby Canal — alone and without adequate supplies. I turned right. Nothing was said about this adventure as I sat down for supper — still trying to remember why I was mad at my mother. Sometimes everything hinges on the direction you choose when faced with two choices. I distinctly recall feeling loved, even though I was mad enough to run away from all that mattered. That feeling of being loved, despite my inadequacies, has remained with me for nearly 70 years. Actually, until I left Rigby, I thought everybody loved me. Ever vigilant, RT
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