My brother and I were playing cowboys and Indians in the heavy groves around our farm near Russell, when the voice of our mother was once again calling us. We probably needed to help with some chores again — feeding calves and such.
We carried endless one-gallon pails of feed to these calves that licked our elbows and tried to suck on our knuckles while we dumped our cargo into their feeders. For certain, no other children in America had suffered as much. There wasn’t a day we couldn’t remember working — our entire lives it seemed (eight years, combined). If only a memo could have leaked to Santa about our plight. It was time for a change.
I pulled my brother aside and laid out the plan. I was going to pack a get away bag and make a break for it on my bike. I informed him that he was too young for this escape, and that I would come back for him in a year when he was older.
So, I grabbed a hooded sweatshirt (one of our child labor ones) and laid it out on the ground. In it I placed the essential supplies for survival: 1) cookies, 2) Mattel flashlight. I then balled up the sweatshirt and tied it to my bike. My cool bike had chopper style handlebars that I had to reach way out to grab. Secondly, it had the coveted banana seat. Need I say more?
I made it to the highway by sneaking behind this and that. What I didn’t tell my brother (in case they broke him during interrogation) was my plan to pedal all the way to Russell (about 5 miles) and down to the Russell city park. There, I would camp out and start my road to a better life. If I became cold or hungry, I would bike to the other end of town to my grandma’s house. She would surely take me in, but would still be required to swear to an alliance. Although, she did have 37 different kinds of cookies year-round, so she probably held all the cards.
I made it nearly 4.5 miles, ducking into ditches while passing by neighboring farms — very stealthy you know. And I must say, with the banana seat, my comfort level in the ditch was rather high.
I had just bounced over the railroad tracks on the edge of Russell when a speeding car from behind me hit the tracks, sailing around me. It landed in front of me, bottoming out and screeching to a dead stop. Fresh out of the grips of a sunny daydream, I simply tipped over onto the ground with no attempt to break my own fall. The dust settled, and like any good quick-draw scene from a western movie, there was a calm before the showdown.
The driver’s door opened and a boot appeared on the ground. The boot seemed oddly familiar. I was still lying sideways on the ground with my feet on the pedals and hands on the handlebars — statuesque as they say. It was my dad.
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| The sky seemed to peel back and the voice of God (as played by James Earl Jones) was bellowing, “Spare the rod, spoil the child.” It occurred to me that this wasn’t helping. The whole scene was a blur.
My dad had to spank a statue that day — still attached to the bike. At some point, the bike and I were separated. I found it encouraging when he put the bike in the trunk instead of me.
They impressed upon me for the next several days how dangerous my stunt was, listing the numerous ways I could have been killed. Years later my mother informed me that they were scared to death, worried that they wouldn’t get there before something bad happened to me. Apparently they had always wondered how I dared do such a thing, and all the more how I got my brother to cover for me, buying me time.
Decades later I learned that the last farm prior to the railroad tracks, home of a one, Ann J., was where my plan unraveled. Apparently “G.I. Ann” was performing routine reconnaissance operations in the area surrounding her farm when she spotted me. She immediately placed a call to my parents who had been desperately searching for me.
Clearly, I need to thank my parents for instilling some work ethic in me. It has helped me over the years. Running down to help on the farm is still one of my best getaways from the big city. Big green toys are provided.
A word to G.I. Ann: Ann, I’m calling for a rematch. You might be able to prevail against a five-year-old, but I’m 35 now and bettin’ the outcome might be different this time. Just name the time and I’ll be there with my chopper handlebars and banana seat. By the way, my receding hairline has made me much more aerodynamic and my expanded waistline distorts my silhouette, making me harder to distinguish from bike-riding bears.
And you know, Ann, I didn’t get to eat my survival cookies that summer day in 1973 — you’ve crossed the line.
That’s my report from the “big city”.
Brian in the Big City
Employee #(0090698)
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