In 1963 we lived in Glen Ellyn , a suburb on the outskirts of Chicago...the suburbs were exploding with WWII vets and their families carving out the American dream.
We had two car garages and enough room for a neighborhood par three in the adjoining back yards. We had neighborhood barbecues and gangs of kids on Schwinn bikes and swing sets dotted the property lines.
Most of all, we had freedom. We kids roamed our neighborhoods as if we would inherit every house, every tree, and every stone on the ground. On summer days, we would jump on our bikes in the morning and disappear until lunch...grilled cheese, hot dogs, Campbell soup and a bowl of grapes...the meal of explorers.
I knew every good climbing tree, every stream and where to cross it and whose back yard you could cut through. I knew the yards with friendly dogs ( I always carried a treat for them) and which dogs you stayed away from (no treat for you!).
I was 6 years old then, and still convinced I could fly...I used to jump off a big boulder near our house wishing it so.
This is the year I mastered the two-wheeler NO TRAINING WHEELS THANK YOU VERY MUCH...
it was the year I remember seeing my mother weeping at the dining room table over the newspaper which held the details of President Kennedy's assassination,
it was the year I cut myself grabbing a broken Noxema jar out of the stream near Mahoney's yard , leaving the first scar I ever had.
It was the year my sister and I met Jackie the Tomboy Runaway.
At the top of Hackberry Lane, a new house was being built, otherwise known as an attractive nuisance by my mom...we loved to explore in new houses, wondering who would move in, would there be kids our age, would they have cool bikes, would their dog be nice? We always found things left by the workers, coke bottles, cigarette butts, and pieces of wood I just knew we could use in our fort in the woods...but we never expected we would find a person.
One afternoon while sneaking into the new house, we were surprised by the presence of a girl, about 15 years old, dressed in jeans and a dark jacket, she had a bandana on (the first I'd ever seen NOT on a cowboy)…she had a chain on her wallet and short black hair and Beatle boots.
We were startled at first when we saw her, but she had an easy smile and in the most disarming way said "Hi" as if she was supposed to be in this house...
I looked at my sister Ellen (at three years older she was the boss of me), and took her lead that this was okay and we started up a conversation.
Jackie was a runaway, she didn't say from what.
She was living on the road and a bit hungry. She was going to stay for only a few days then be on her "Jackie Kerouac" way.
Ellen and I, eager to be a part of this adventure, immediately rattled off the contents of our refrigerator at home and how we could sneak food to her NO PROBLEM. We are pros at this stuff, we think.
Jackie smiled.
We ran home and assembled PB&J sandwiches, bananas, apples, cheese... your typical rebel food...and on the walk back I asked my sister why Jackie dressed like a boy..."Because she's Tomboy, that's why" ...it was the first time I ever heard that term...Tomboy...wow, new word, new friend, this is what being 6 is all about.
We got back to the Tomboy runaway hiding place and proudly displayed our "get" for Jackie, all the while bragging about our stealth operation and how we told our mom we were eating lunch al fresco, translation: in the woods at our fort.
We watched her wolf down her food and then she pulled out her jackknife to cut her apple…ANOTHER first...a jackknife! This Tomboy Runaway was getting cooler by the second; free of her parents and rules, out on the open road, cool bandana, owner of a jackknife...I bet she knew one of the Beatles, she wore their boots, you know.
We walked home in inspired silence...this was more fun than any Pipi Longstocking book...this girl smoked that Eloise at the Plaza...
I couldn't wait to get back to the construction site the next morning...I had more stolen food and Bazooka bubblegum to give her. I couldn't wait to tell her what she missed on The Ed Sullivan show the night before and that we were trying to sneak a pillow and blanket out to her...
but the house was empty, no one answered when I did the secret knock...one two, one two.
Jackie was gone.
No note, no nothing, just gone.
I backed out to the dirt filled front yard, and stared at the unfinished house so like Jackie, a work in progress, yet to be defined.
The walk home was a long thoughtful one, heavy footsteps full of letdown.
I think I checked back one or two times later that week, but Jackie the Tomboy runaway was gone. She became a staple in my prayers, Dear God please bless so and so and sorry for not cleaning my room and help Jackie find her way home.
Pretty soon Jackie the Tomboy Runaway just became a story we would tell the other neighbor kids, and then something my sister and I would reminisce about as adults...we still can't pinpoint why we never alerted our parents about her.
Jackie would be close to maybe 65 years old today, that's if and it's a big if, she survived her life on the road. Or maybe Jackie the Tomboy Runaway was just a kid from a nearby neighborhood who wanted to scare her parents, to finally get them to stop forcing her to wear dresses and corsages and grow her hair long like the Lennon sisters. At least that's how my 6 year old mind defined the terms of hurt ... as an adult, I imagine there may have been a more sorrowful story behind Jackie.
Who knows.
All I know is that she felt alone enough to run from the place where you should feel safe and above all, loved. She felt compelled to risk whatever unknowns just so she could be, or find out, who she was.
God already knew who she was, he already counted every short black hair on her head, she just didn't know that.
And I knew who she was, she was Jackie the Tomboy Runaway, the most exciting thing to happen on Hackberry Lane, and maybe , just maybe, in our simple act of bringing food to her and listening to her with such awe, she felt special enough to stop the running.
