"Precocious children rarely grow up good" - W.H. Auden
This is a "certified true" adventure story from my childhood.
You'll laugh. You'll cry. You'll wonder how my mother survived.
Some might say I was a precocious child. Today while talking with my father, I was reminded of an unusual event from my childhood.
The House at Park Circle North
Fair Use clip from Google Maps
We lived in a very small house on Park Circle North.
The house had a big back yard where Grandma kept a garden and an assortment of fruit trees and berry bushes. Across the back fence was a large, open, unimproved park area that seems to mostly still be there to this day. Grandpa used to take me out there to fly kites. On either side were houses where my childhood friends lived.
My grandfather was a machinist at Republic Aviation Corporation, less than a mile from the house. My dad worked there also, though I don't remember exactly what he did.
F-84F - Republic Aviation Corporation photo
No Copyright - via Flickr
I remember my third birthday,
seated at the head of a long picnic/dining room table in the house. One day, not long thereafter, I woke up and decided it would be a good day to visit dad at work. However, I didn't bother sharing this plan with mom.
I remember walking out the front door and crossing the street. At the time, there were a couple of empty lots across the street. I used to watch my dad walk through them, carrying his lunch pail on his way to work. I of course went the same way.
The next street over led over to Route 110, a fairly busy highway back in the day. On the other side of the highway was Republic Aviation.
When I reached 110,
I paused and looked both ways (as I had been taught). When I was sure there were no cars coming, I scurried across the highway. Then I walked a ways north to the security gate, where I told the guard my business. All in all, I had walked perhaps half a mile.
The Park Circle North Neighborhood
Fair Use clip from Google Maps
The gate guard got on his radio,
and called another security guard or a policeman. Whoever it was arrived shortly in what looked to me like a police car. When they put me in the car and asked where I lived, I dutifully replied "21 Park Circle North." I had, after all, been well trained. I also figured out fairly quickly that, despite promises to the contrary, they weren't going to let me visit dad.
Imagine my mother's surprise,
when she answered the doorbell, and there I stood beside a man in uniform. "Is this your child?" he asked. The next thing I knew, I was lying on my bed in my darkened bedroom, listening to a conversation between the cop and my mother just outside the door.
"Ma'am, has your boy ever wandered off like this before?"
"No, officer. This is very unlike him."
"You do realize, don't you, that if he does this again, we'll have to put him in jail?"
"Yes, of course. We'll see to it that it doesn't happen again."
As you might guess, that conversation put the fear of God in me, and there were no repeat performances. However, I suspect the whole episode may have contributed to my innate distrust of authority.
FIN
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