The night before I took off, I packed a small green Samsonite suitcase and snuck out of my bedroom window to the roof of the garage where I dropped the suitcase down into a snow bank which was about three feet deep against the garage. The next morning, I didn't dress in my school uniform and told my mom we were having a "casual dress day" at my high school. From the house, I headed out to Route 219 and began to hitch hike all the way to Buffalo.
It was 1980. Jimmy Carter was President and the hostages were still being held in Iran. What possessed me to travel to a city farther north in the dead of winter is still a mystery to me. There are sights and sounds to this journey which have left indelible imprints in my memory. One is around midday--freezing cold--in my tennis shoes walking across a bridge in Salamanca, New York. A man had just let me out of his truck because he was taking a turn to another route. I walked across the bridge (a long one) as the snow was getting heavier and accumulating on the surface. It was dead silent. I wondered if I might freeze to death. Eventually, another trucker--a semi driver--picked me up and took me to Kenmore, New York. This is a suburb on the outskirts of Buffalo. It's strange. I never considered that I was ever in danger along this route. I was probably wishing for a little danger. Who knows? I do find it kind of crazy, however, that none of these drivers who picked me up thought anything about driving a fifteen year-old boy hundreds of miles on a school day. Perhaps they did. It was such an unusual day.
When I eventually started to wander the streets of Kenmore in the cold snow, I was shocked with the reality of my situation. It would be dark soon and much colder. Where would I go? What would I do? Long before the age of cellphones or even pagers, there was really no way I could reach out to anyone for help without using a direct approach. I stopped into a Catholic church to pray. It was warm there. I considered my options. It suddenly dawned on me that I could talk to a priest and the priest would have sympathy towards me. He would find me a caring family and that would be that. I went to the rectory which was right next to the church. An older woman answered the door and I told her that I needed to speak to a priest. A middle aged white man with cold eyes invited me in. I told him that I had run away from home and that I needed help. He quickly assessed the situation and told me that he would have to call the police. In retrospect, he did the appropriate thing obviously...but in my fifteen year-old mind, I was appalled! I couldn't believe that things had turned out this way. A couple friendly police officers (in uniform) arrived to take me to the local police station. I sat there as I was gently interrogated. My parents were called and they were on their way to retrieve me. The drive to Buffalo is around two and a half hours or more, depending on weather so I was in this small suburban police station just waiting and thinking. One of the officers offered to buy me a hamburger. I wasn't very talkative so I don't think I even responded to him. He brought me one anyway and I did eat it--if my memory serves me correctly. The ride back to Johnsonburg was quiet. When I got home, my entire family was waiting for me. The rest is a blur, as I know that I was answering many questions and trying to maintain my composure. Something in me clicked that day, however. I'm not exactly sure when it happened, but I began to change.
It wasn't until many years later that I found out what my father did that day. He had been called home from work of course, and then he and my mother had to give a description of me to the local police. He set out on foot to look for me in the local woods. I can only imagine what my parents were going through. My mother says that my father cried only two times (at least where she saw him) in all of their married years. This was one of those times. He didn't even cry at his own mother's funeral. It's strange that at the time of my running away, I couldn't stand or understand my dad. As the years rolled on, it was he who made me cry each time he expressed his love for me in a caring letter or with sincere and wise advice.
On 7 January, I lost my father. He was eighty-seven years old. For some reason, I've been thinking a lot about that cold January day in 1980. I wish I knew then what I know now.
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