I once made a bindle and ran away from home up this road. I don’t remember what awful domestic injustice led to this action, or which cartoon convinced me I needed an actual bandana-tied-to-a-stick bindle to carry my things.
I think I was around 6 or 7 and the day was waning but I started the trek up the gravel road next to our old house, toward the hog barn and grain bin, completely unsure of where it would lead once it passed the cluster of farm equipment I was familiar with. I had followed my dad up there several times to watch him work, but I still had no idea where that road eventually led. I remember watching pigs be born in that little hog barn, and my dad having to help the sow deliver. I think I remember that, anyway. Turns out my memory is an unreliable narrator.
My sister came to retrieve me in Dad’s giant silver Ford pickup. I didn’t resist.
I did not get very far. I never do.