The Runaway

A 5 year old boy's frustration with life

The Runaway
By Ron Rosewood

I was five years old, and fed up with life. What a bloody disaster, nothing was going right. I wanted to damn well grow up right now, do grown up things like driving tractors, owing my own.22 rifle, going fishing every day with my own boat and motor, maybe even getting a motorcycle with a side cart. It would be great to own a log cabin and trap line, up in the Yukon, just like in the movie I saw at the town hall last Saturday night. That’s it, trap for furs in the winter and pan for gold in the summer, now that would be really living.

Something here had to change. The key to change is to let go of fear. I wisely waited until dad headed out into the fields, and then announced loudly to my mother. “I’m running away from home.”

It was a clear warm sunny Saskatchewan morning. A perfect day to take off; after all there was no real point in running away on a cold wet miserable day. What does that get you?

“Don’t forget to write us,” mother paused and added, “once you learn how to write, that is.” My mother was not exactly alarmed at my declaration. If Dad had been there he would have straightened me out good. I’d be dragging my behind out picking stones on the summer fallow. “Shall I make you some sandwiches?” she offered teasingly.

“What kind?” I needed to know, I don’t eat just any kind of sandwich. “How about cheese and lettuce?” She knew I liked Velveeta processed cheese, even though I often got hives after eating cheese. It was a done deal; she made my sandwich while I filled my pockets with essentials, my slingshot, my jackknife, a handful of sunflower seeds, and three carrots fresh from the garden.

Next, I went to the tool shop and got a hacksaw, ideal for falling small willows when building an overnight shelter.
Mother handed me my cheese sandwich.” Good luck Ronnie.”

I was off. It was eight a.m. and like most runaways, I had no real plan. Down the path I headed, past our caragana hedge past the outhouse, through the grove of poplar trees along a path, towards the neighbor's house about a quarter mile away. It was a well-worn path, as the neighbors had the first television set in the area. Dad and I went over quite often to watch Saturday night wrestling, and boy those guys were good. My favorite was “Whipper Billy Watson." He fought fair, not like that bad guy, “Gene Kinisky” It was a John Denver day, ideal for leaving home! The red winged blackbirds were scolding the crows trying to get at their nests. A mother mallard duck and eight ducklings were feeding in circles just off the pond’s edge.
Gophers were scampering from mound to mound, whistling their warnings to each other across the pasture. A red-tailed hawk circled ever so high up in the sky, ready to swoop down on unsuspecting prey.

Within ten minutes, I was over at our neighbor's. Emil was out in the middle of his yard fixing the used Prefect automobile that he had recently purchased. He had seen them in England after the war. Thinking they were great, he bought one as soon as he got back to Canada. The other men in the area drove Chevs and Fords so they chuckled at Emil’s little Prefect scooting along our country dirt roads. They called him the “preacher” because student ministers drove around in small economical cars, while on their summer ‘practical experience’ jobs. Emil didn’t look like a preacher, as he always had a pipe between his lips, the only time I saw him without a pipe was when he was eating something, or shooting ducks with his shotgun.
He probably slept without his pipe. I never had occasion to see him sleeping. “Hi Emil”, he let me call him by his first name. He treated me like an adult. He took me along fishing, duck hunting and rabbit hunting. At the time, he had no sons only three girls, they didn’t like hunting. My dad did not like to hunt or fish, he liked to work instead, so going with Emil on outings worked out fine for everyone.

“Hello Ronnie” Emil greeted me “what are you up to?”

“Nothing much, I’m just running away from home, for good, this time. I’m sick of all the work around home.” It was my job to gather the eggs in the morning, bring in two arms full of firewood from the woodpile and turn the cream separator, once the milk came up from the barn twice a day. “They keep you pretty busy alright, I won’t put up with that either,” he agreed with my assessment of the situation.

“They’re not going to miss you,” he added, using some reverse psychology on me. Of course at the time I knew crap about such grown up things as psychology. This got me thinking, firstly, mom was not upset at me leaving. Now Emil does not think they are going to miss me. Hold on here a moment, am I overlooking something? Perhaps I had better rethink this “running away” idea. I sat on that Prefect’s front fender pondering my situation, watching Emil change the spark plugs and tune up the car’s engine. He kept working without a word to me. On occasion, he would swear at the rusty bolts or warn his dog Barky to get away. Barky kept hanging around sniffing my cheese sandwich and barking his head off. Emil could see I was deep in thought, he knew five year olds don’t like to be disturbed when they’re thinking.
A long time went by, thirty minutes or more. I decided to eat my sandwich. Ten minutes later that was done. I jumped down off the fender. I had had a change of heart.

“Goodbye Emil” I mumbled, my shoulders hunched over, head bowed down, eyes looking at the ground, both hands in my pockets, totally ashamed of myself.

“Where are you off to Ronnie, Saskatoon or Prince Albert?” those were the nearest two cities to our farm.

“I forgot something, I have to go home.” I turned to start homewards, my feet dragging reluctantly in the dirt.

“See you later.” Emil said, seeing my downcast mood he added, “By the way Ronnie do you want to go fishing this evening? The Fish and Game Department just opened Shannon Lake, it was stocked three years ago. The talk is there are large pickerel in there now.” He had kindly offered up a solution to my self-inflicted dilemma.

“That would be great! I answered. I’ll go home and check my fishing rod and reel, see you later.”

Off I went, bouncing and smiling, happy as a clam. Life was suddenly beautiful.

Rosewood, Ron. Excerpt “From Hilarious To Outrageous”