NELS HANSON | Rusty ' s Housee
At some time do all children decide to run away , leave house and hearth for bluest , kinder skies , a better life down a two-lane road ? In old cartoons the hobo ties to one end of a stick a sack with all he owns on Earth . Once I wrapped two ketchup sandwiches in a blue bandana I folded and knotted to a broom ’ s broken handle I flung over one shoulder . I got as far as the paved road , then turned back , trudged home dirt driveway afraid of distance , the unknown before anyone knew I was gone . I stayed but across the vineyards long hours my cousin and I lived in Rusty ’ s house , white-planked with green shingled roof , arched door , built for my crippled aunt ’ s gold-orange collie who climbed the kitchen steps each morning for her to lean on the railing to pet him . From blond bricks we fashioned a flameless fireplace , on the mantel ’ s wide board set an empty lantern , cans of peas and whisky bottles we found at the dump by the pond . It was our house – no adult could bow low enough to enter or squeeze past the always open narrow door . Three feet by four , the residence was safe , secure , sturdy dwelling only Rusty ever came to visit .
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