He's gone again

It took me awhile to figure out how I might reach the door knob. There was one of those chain latches my parents had installed about another foot or so above the door handle. What to do? I soon spied a chair and I was gone again.

Wanderlust is not learned behavior. It is born in your spirit. As soon as I mastered walking upright, I began to wander the neighborhood. I was just about two. On more than one occasion, I imagine my mother napping with my newborn brother. My poor sister charged with keeping an eye on me. She wasn’t much more that six. At some point, she let her attention waver for a few minutes. I was later told that my mother came out from her bedroom and asked my sister, “Where is your brother?!?”. She replied, “he’s gone again.”

So it went for as long as we lived on Porter Street in Cleveland Park, DC. I was the little boy with a rope around his waist that was tied to a pole out front. I just wanted to go, go, go. I recall my father brought home one of those fire engine cars with pedals to make it go. He would sit on the front steps sipping his cocktail while I drove up and down the sidewalk. It was great fun.

On the day in question, the last day I had that fire engine, I was outfront pedaling under the watchful eye of my father and sister. He went inside to refresh his drink and I began pedaling hell bent on a new journey. I was going downhill towards Rock Creek Park. You would be amazed at how far one can travel in the time it takes to refresh your drink.

My father came back out, looked up and down the block, turned to my sister and asked, “Where is your brother?”. “He’s gone again.” “God damn it, I told you to watch him!” “I did, he went that way” and she pointed down the hill towards Rock Creek Park.

Me? I was down the hill and around the curve, pedaling my little butt off. Amazingly, I made it to the entrance of the zoo. I turned in and was greeted by one of Metropolitain PD’s finest. He pushed my little fire engine to the side and loaded me into the back of a police cruiser. He pulled out and turned towards Porter Street. I was being taken back home.

Homecoming not so sweet. I was put back in a harness attached to a leash and “walked” into our building, up the stairs and back into our apartment. The fire engine was never recovered. Not too worry. I still had my two feet and a heart filled with wanderlust. It wouldn’t be long before my sister would once again announce “he’s gone again.”