Our Little Runaway

James: I don't want to go to church.

Dad: Well, I'm sorry to hear that. Now go get your shoes and I'll tie them for you.

James: {Toddling off to fetch his shoes from the bedroom} ... I don't want to go to church. {Returning with shoes in hand, grumbling to himself} I'm gonna run away. Yeah that's what I'll do - I'll run away!

Dad: That'll be fine; you can run away right after church.

Later (as we were driving home from church) I inquired, "James, are you still planning to run away from home?"

James: Oh uh, Yeah! I'm gonna run away. This'll be fun! C'mon Ben, let's run away.

Mom: Now, I don't want to pressure you one way or the other, but how about if you run away after lunch? You know, you wouldn't want to run away from home on an empty stomach.

James: Okay!

Dad: So where are you thinking about running off to?

James: The house with the rotten pumpkin that's drawn on.

Dad: Oh, well that's a good place. It's not too far and you can come visit us whenever you feel like it.

Now at this point in the story, James's destination of the house with the rotten pumpkin that's drawn on requires a bit of explanation. This runaway adventure happened sometime in November. As was our custom, that year for Halloween we'd carved jack-o-lanterns and put them out on the front porch to glower at the candy-gobbling goblins. The following day I'd placed the darkened pumpkins into the trash, but James was heart-broken about the disposal of our beautiful jack-o-lanterns. I explained (as best I could) that if we kept the pumpkins on display they'd just rot and draw bugs. He clearly didn't buy my lame argument, but there's little a four-year-old can do about big stubborn grown-ups.

Later that week James saw the fatal flaw in my rotten excuse for euthanizing the pumpkins. The neighbors across the street three houses down still had a big grinning pumpkin on display. (That house was also prone to darkened Christmas displays in February.) As we drove past the house with that pumpkin, James challenged me, "Look Dad, they still have their pumpkin out."

"Well yes they do, James. But you see, they didn't carve their pumpkin. They just took a grease pencil and drew a face on it. We could've done that, but that wouldn't have been near as much fun as digging all the slimy stuff out of the pumpkin." James readily conceded my point that merely drawing a face on a pumpkin wouldn't be much fun. Henceforth James never failed to point out the house with the rotten pumpkin that's drawn on whenever we drove past it. So, when James announced his intention to move into the house with the rotten pumpkin that's drawn on, I knew exactly where he meant. As for who lived in the house with ..., we weren't sure. They seemed like okay folks, but we'd never taken the trouble to meet them.

So right after lunch James and Ben dashed to their room and started loading their Radio Flyers with all the necessities of the vagabond life: Legos, socks, and ... well, that's pretty much it. As they pulled their precious cargo through the front door, I grabbed the camera and followed them down to the street. James seemed to hesitate as if having second thoughts about the new home he'd chosen, but by this point, events had a will of their own. Ben, age three, (who'd been following James's lead) had no such doubts and quickly moved to the lead before turning around and looking back to make sure James was still with him. James resolutely turned to face his destiny and I snapped a photo. Joyce and I bid the boys good-bye and they trundled off to their new life at the house with the rotten pumpkin that's drawn on.

I reassured Joyce: "I need to put the camera away. I'll be right back. Don't worry, I won't let them wander off." Then I dashed back into the house. When I returned curbside (with the boys fading into the wee distance - roughly 100 feet away), Joyce was getting more than a little fretful and said, "You let them out of your sight and you die."

So I walked briskly down the street and arrived at the front door of the house with the rotten pumpkin that's drawn on just in time to hear the resident telling James, "Well, maybe we ought to check with your parents..."

I quickly interjected, "You know, if James and Ben want to come visit Mom and me, they're always welcome. Maybe they could even spend the night."

The neighbor smiled and pushed open the screen door, "Oh, well in that case, come on in, boys. We're having liver and broccoli for supper."

Without a word James pivoted and dragged his wagon back out to the street. Ben mutely followed. I confided to the neighbor, "It's been nice meeting you, but I think the broccoli was the deal breaker." He laughed and we parted company - both with an improved opinion of our neighbors.

I stood street-side as James inquired at the door of Virgie, the near-deaf octogenarian across the street from our house. I couldn't hear James's side of the conversation, but Virgie very loudly replied, "What?"

James visited one more door and then Mom emerged from the house bearing treats and calling out, "James, Ben! I have Popsicles?" All thoughts of running away were abandoned, and thus our humble home continued to have its full complement of little boys.

But sadly, nothing in this life is permanent, and the day of James's departure is hard upon us. Today James begins packing his wagon (the Radio Flyer having morphed into a Toyota Tacoma) and in just a few days he'll run away to a place where neither broccoli nor Popsicle can compel his return.