Where did that "run wild, run free" come from? It popped into my memory from the way-back machine. Hokey smokes, Bullwinkle! That was the title of a 1969 movie I'm sure I never saw. Insidious television ads must have slipped into my subconscious and survived anaerobically in some cyst for thirty-six years, like a tick in a jelly jar.
I want to run wild and run free, but I need to cull my image and lesson plan files, and eliminate much of my stored recyclables collection. Maybe I should whittle my collection of "fat pants" and "skinny pants" to a more realistic range.
What is really important? I've been playing this Robinson Crusoe game with myself for over forty years. The recent hurricane disasters have only aggravated this tendency:
- I have to have my address book. It's hand-written in a little spiral notebook. I live by words, writing, and mail. Once my spouse made a frozen February phone call to his sister from a gas station pay phone in Iowa, and left my address book behind. I made him drive back on I-80 the twenty-seven miles to retrieve it. He was not a happy boy. If I'd been smart I would have offed him then. I'd be out of prison by now.
- My kids' medical records. They are big boys, but they still need to know when they got that vaccination. It's my maternal duty! If the United States were under attack by an enemy other than our current administration, I would laminate the medical records, then strap them to my thighs with clear Scotch brand packing tape.
- My sense of self. It was swept away in a levee break, and marooned in an odiferous sea of toxic waste for a very long time. I make sure it is wearing a Mae West lifejacket at all times now.
- Okay. I admit it. On the desert island I would want the Legos!
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