One time when I was about 8 years old, I ran away from home. My entire escape probably lasted all of about 20 minutes, but in my memory it was hours. I packed up my little red travel suitcase and walked straight out the front door. It was evening, as I recall, and once I got past the front stoop and across the driveway, I was stumped. My escape was not hampered by a detailed plan, so apparently I made my way around to the side of the house, plunked my little suitcase down on the grass where the garage met the side of the house in a corner and sat there, waiting for my alarmed family to come find me. They didn’t come.
My memory tells me that at some point I went back inside, but I don’t remember what happened after that. I could ask my brother, but I suspect he isn’t even aware this daring escape happened at all. My mom would know and probably my dad. My sister would know, especially if there was punishment involved--she reveled in the times that I was the one who got in trouble. But my mom, sister and dad have all died in the past four years. And it is exactly because of the last four years that I made a recent escape with equal levels of planning and preparation.
Mom died four years ago and we brought Dad home to live with us soon afterwards. My sister Susie died a year later. We lost Dad a month and a half ago.
During the last four years, when Dad stayed home, I stayed home. I am a bit of a homebody anyway, so I wasn’t desperate to get out and do things, see people, shop anywhere--even without a pandemic. So, there I was . . .with lots of time on my hands. I could run out for a coffee or pick up eggs at the grocery. I could grab my grandson Luca from school and hang out with him for the afternoon. But I was having trouble with all of it. I still felt tethered to my house; it still felt like--sometimes--Dad was still there and I needed to be home.
Then, last Friday night, after dinner, Angelo and I were talking about Annie and Tony heading to Buffalo for the weekend. Everyone was vaccinated and relatively safe and it was exciting to think they’d be able to see each other. I’m not sure what prompted this, but I said, “You know, we could actually join them . . .” After a little back and forth texting, we were packing within twenty minutes.
We decided to get up early for the six-hour drive and be there for lunch. But in the morning, I was beset by an inability to function. When I should have been filling the cooler, all I could do was look for a different purse because the black clutch I was using wasn’t big enough. I emptied the clutch into the cream purse I got from my mom. Nope. Still not big enough. I knew I had a dark green shoulder bag in the attic, so up I went in search of that one. That one finally did it, but it’s a miracle I got anything in my suitcase.
“Ready?” Angelo was calling . . . we still had to go to Annie’s house to feed her cats. I wasn’t sure who I was going to get to cover the next day, so I brought a spare key with me to leave at the house. The cats were fine but I couldn’t figure out where to hide the key. In the wagon? No. How about this planter? Too visible. The key was in a baggie in case of rain, so I would just stick it under a rock. But which rock?
“Cindy?” Angelo actually got out of the car to find out what I was doing. I think he was worried that I had finally snapped as I criss-crossed the yard picking up rocks and discarding them. I think I got most of my steps in that day wandering around the backyard looking for the right rock to hide the key under.
I did make it back into the car and we set out for our trip. I brought along my laptop to get some work done, but of course I had left it unplugged all night and the battery was dead. It was a good thing all I had to do was sit in a car for six hours because I don’t think I could have managed anything else. Leaving the house was sounding all my alarms, blowing all my fuses. What was wrong with me?
For weeks, I had been trying to plan the trip to bring Dad’s ashes back to Florida and couldn’t do it. There are other plans I have to make for other trips and other responsibilities that require me to leave the house and I wasn’t able to even look at a calendar and airline schedule at the same time. And now, here I was jumping in the car at the spur of the moment for two whole days! No wonder I was short-circuiting.
But, I did it. I left my house and didn’t totally fall apart and had a really nice time reuniting with family we hadn’t seen in over a year. There were still tugs at my heart; at Wegman’s (and let’s be honest, we only went to Buffalo for Wegman’s...we can see the family on Zoom) there was a package of mini cinnamon scones which I automatically reached for because I was always on the hunt for mini cinnamon scones for Dad. It’s not that I didn’t think I should leave home, it’s just that it’s been so long since I’ve been able to, it was hard to feel like it was okay to go. I guess that’s why I couldn’t plan it, it just had to happen.
Besides, even though I am able to leave home, home comes with me.
Love this piece Cindy and totally relate with the idea of leaving the house. Although, I did make my initial escape from home at age five by dragging my suitcase (of which my mother helped to pack), to my Grandma’s three blocks away. My back was so sore the next day I missed Kindergarten.
Cindy always a pleasure to read your work. It is heartfelt and true. So glad you got away. It gets easier with time. Hugs.