Panama

When I was a child, I ran away from home three times. It’s not like home was horrible or anything. I think that, at times, I just felt that there were other places I was supposed to be. That and my little sister was a major pain in the butt. Lordy, could she whine. (Not anymore. Yeah, all grown up now and we’re good.)

The first time I ran away, I was four years old. But my sister had nothing to do with it, considering that she had only been born a few weeks before and all she did at that point was just lie there, not doing anything while everyone talked to her using really funny voices.

My Uncle Buddy was in the Army and he was stationed in Panama. My Nana, when Buddy left, started telling me stories about Panama. Nana told wonderful stories. I wasn’t hearing about canals or anything; I was hearing about a magic land. Wishes came true, the food tasted like it was cooked in Heaven, and everyone sang and danced their days away in this charmed place called Panama. Go ahead. Repeat the word to yourself a few times.

Panama.

It starts to sound like magic, doesn’t it?

Nana promised she was going to take me there. She started telling me Panama stories in the winter, around Christmas time, and she said come summer we’d take our trip. Well, months passed and then it was August. And I was an impatient little booger. So one day when Mom put me down for a nap, just after she left the room I sat right back up again. I’d really been thinking about Panama a lot lately and I decided then and there that this was just as good a time as any to go. I got up, walked down the stairs, out the front door and started on my way.

I was headed to Nana’s first. We’d planned the trip together so I figured I should stop and pick her up on the way. Besides, being a grownup, she had things like money and a car and I was thinking we’d need stuff like that. Hey, I may have been only four but I wasn’t stupid.

I planned to follow the route my parents drove when going to Nana’s. It usually took about a half hour to drive there, so how long of a walk could it be? An hour? Maybe two? I’d be there by dinner. Right?

My walk took me up three blocks, then over another four. A right turn and then I was on Route 45. Yup. Three lanes of traffic in both directions. I stood looking at all the cars, the traffic lights, the gas stations and stores, and it hit me. I had never crossed a street by myself before. I admit to a moment’s hesitation, but then I figured if I was old enough to go to Panama (which Nana seemed to think I was) then I should be old enough to cross a street.

When I reached the first intersection, I must have looked both ways nearly a hundred times. After all, I was a good girl and I’d always been told to be careful, so if I was going to be traveling I’d be taking my good girl lessons with me. When I finally thought it was really, really safe to cross, I ran. Fast as my little heinie could move. I used the same method for all the other streets I had to cross. I began to think, hey – this isn’t so hard, this crossing the street thing.

But, boy – this trip was starting to take a long time. At some point, when driving, Dad turned onto the Big Road to get to Nana’s. Where was it? Where was the Big Road? Why wasn’t I there already? Did I mention it was very, very hot? August gets like that. I was in a little short set and wearing sandals, so I wasn’t that uncomfortable but I was getting really thirsty.

Then I saw it. The big green and white sign that meant the Big Road. I was quite relieved; the Big Road didn’t have intersections so I could just walk without crossing streets. And the ride on the Big Road was always fast, so I’d be there soon! Yay! (I know, I know. But this was how my four year old mind worked.)

But, alas, my trip down the Big Road was not to be. A car with flashing lights on top pulled over and a big man dressed all in brown got out. I found out later he was a State Trooper and a man who worked at a car dealership had seen me pass by and called 911. Later, my Mom called the car dealership man to thank him and he described how I looked and looked before crossing a street, so I had a witness to how much of a good girl I was. Not that that counted for anything. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

The Man in Brown walked up.

“Little girl, are you by yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Where are your parents?”

“Mommy’s at home. Daddy is at the pool.”

“Where are you going?”

“Panama.” And I explained about Nana and my Uncle Buddy and how great Panama was and that they had magic there so everyone was happy all the time and how I’d been promised a summer trip and that it was August and that it was summer now. So I should be in Panama.

I still remember the look on his face. I can still see it, the look of someone trying not to laugh.

Needless to say, he didn’t assist me in my journey. Once he had my name and where I lived (I only knew the street name but that seemed to be enough for him) and he had told me NOT TO MOVE ANOTHER STEP, he started talking on something attached to the dash of his car. It was only a minute or so before I heard my Mom’s voice coming out of the thing in his hand, the thing with the curly wire on it. She sounded quite upset.

Anyway, she told me it was safe to get in the car with the Man in Brown. I was home in about ten minutes. I remember being surprised, because it had felt like I had walked so far. How could I be home again so quickly?

I got a big, big hug from Mom. And she cried a lot. Then she spanked me. Oh my, did she spank me. This was a paddle on the butt spanking. Then she called Nana and told her about my trip to Panama and there were more tears and Nana telling me that if I were at her house, I’d be getting ANOTHER spanking, which would have been a really big deal because Nana had never spanked me for anything in my whole life ever.

My father-- he spent the rest of the year telling everyone about my trip to Panama and how I’d made it right to the edge of the Beltway. I swear, he sounded downright proud. Men are weird.

I still have never been to Panama. I know too much about the real country now. I’m afraid I wouldn’t find any magic and I think I’d like to keep that part. Some things you just don’t want to let go of, you know? Maybe it’s because when Nana died, I pictured her going somewhere just like the place she had described, that place she called Panama.