Running Away From Home

I remember, as a kid, getting angry at my parents and making up my mind to run away from home. I don't think I ever got further than the end of my street, but, at the time, I had big plans to get away.

Today Clay decided to run away from home. He packed up the wagon with a basketball, a little stool and his bike and started to take off. Sure, he'd only have the bathing suit on his body to wear until he got a job, made some money, and could go shopping for new clothes. Yeah, he'd have nothing to eat until he ran across a lemonade stand where the kids might take pity on him and give him a free cup of juice. Or maybe he'd find some "gently used" gum on the sidewalk in his travels that would hold him over until, again, he got a job and could afford food.

But he was all set as far as sports-like activities to keep him occupied. He could ride his bike. He could play basketball. If extreme loneliness set in, he could draw a face on the basketball, name him Spalding, and call him his friend. Or if he was a little tired, he could whip out the stool, kick back and watch some other folks play sports. The wagon would be perfect for sleeping. If it was too sunny or rainy out, he could turn the wagon upside down and hunker down beneath it. Clearly, he had all the bases covered.

I didn't think Clay was mad at me. I couldn't remember yelling at him or doing anything that would have prompted his exodus. When I asked him, "Clay, why are you running away?" he answered simply, "Because I'm bored."
"Ohhh. You're bored, huh? Well, where are you going to go?"
"To Jaina's house."
"You think it'll be more fun to live at your friend's house?"
"Yes. But I wish I knew how to get there," he lamented.
"Do you think Jaina's family will let you live there forever?"
"Yeah, but it would be better to go to Disney World. How do you get to Florida?"
"Well, Clay, you walk down our street and turn left when you get to the end..."
"Which way is left?" he interrupted.
"That way," I pointed the direction. "Then you want to go down, oh, 3 or 4 blocks and make a right. Then you just keep walking that way for eight and a half months."
"Mom, it would take 30 days to walk to Florida."
"Oh sorry. My bad," I relented. "So, Clay, what would you eat while you were running away from home?"
"Sticks and stuff."
"Where would you sleep?"
"In the grass."
"What if it was raining?"
"Then I'd sleep in a bush."
"I see. Do you think you'd miss us?"
"No."
"OK then. It sounds like you've got it all figured out. Carry on, Clay, carry on."

By the way, he's still here and is wondering what's for dinner. Should I serve him a plate of sticks?