Gordie Boy: "I'm outta here!"

I was new to the neighbourhood and didn't know any of the household routines followed by others around me. I didn't understand the ins and outs of modern society and conversations between larger members of the ruling class went right over my head. I reached a breaking point after 12 months of life.

Early one morning, while the two adults who shared living space with me were occupied, I planned my escape. I felt the farther away I could get from the woman who regularly shoved warm oatmeal or mushy peas into my mouth the better. Offerings from the plate of the wavy-haired man who sat at one side of the kitchen table were no better and if I never bounced on his lap and spit up breakfast on my shirt again that would be fine with me.

When I felt no one was watching I headed for a screen door that faced a narrow porch, a yard surrounded by spruce trees, a sidewalk that pointed toward Wettlaufer's General Store and a sideroad that connected with The King's Highway 59. I calculated - if I ran as fast as my little kegs could carry me - I would reach the yard in two minutes, the sidewalk in three and be running past the general store and west toward the bright lights of Woodstock in ten. I just hoped Mrs. Hilliker, the old lady who lived in the next house, didn't spot me or pick me up before I had a chance to 'blow this pop stand'.

Before I snuck out the screen door I spied my favourite felt hat on the floor. It was mine so I grabbed it. I also saw some shiny black shoes - they were mine too, I was sure of it - so I put my feet inside them and clunked out the door. I tried to tuck in my shirt but it wouldn't tuck and I had the awful feeling that my shorts needed some tucking too but my hands were not up to the job and I was in a hurry.

I approached the porch steps and heard the door slam behind me. Did I do that? I asked myself. Is that my door? I wondered also if I should slam the door again because it made an interesting noise. And I wondered how I would get down the first step and if I was wearing the right shoes for the job. I also wondered why my shorts were so baggy and why a cool draft kept sneaking up from behind me.

I don't know who took my picture. But I guess I didn't escape town that day. And these days I think warm mushy peas taste pretty darn good with fish and chips.

Photo of old photo by GH

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