At six, I was still learning about distance and speed—at least that’s what the experts would tell you. Also, I had no business being near busy streets, and I supposedly didn’t know yet how dangerous a car or truck could be. But those milestone markers didn’t fit me, the kid who lived near the Dandy Deli, running across Maine Street for candy, soda, ice cream, and packs of cigarettes for the grown-ups, concealed in paper bags.
In the ’80s, kids like me were turned loose after breakfast and expected back by dark. My dad and on-again, off-again stepmother didn’t hover. They didn’t give a shit; they figured the world would teach me what it needed to.
No one timed my street crossings. When I crossed, I sprinted. I waited for the space between cars to widen just enough and ran flat out like the legendary NFL running back Walter Payton. I trusted my legs to beat the traffic. They never failed me. Not even when I upped the ante and started on my biggest solo street adventure yet, one summer Sunday afternoon, while shopping with family on the other side of town at Walmart.
One moment, I was standing beside my dad and Aunt Gin; the next, they were gone. I circled the store twice, scanning every checkout line. To six-year-old me, it didn’t feel like “separated,” it felt like “abandoned.”
My dad was a long-haired dopehead who was either working or partying. He lived for himself. So it made perfect sense that he left me behind or didn’t notice when I slipped out of view. I had a long leash growing up.
It didn’t make sense to walk home—five miles is a long way when you’re six, nearly two hours if you keep moving, and far too many intersections to figure out. Two felt possible; eight did not.
So I decided to walk to my grandparents’ house instead. It was closer—about two miles.
After scanning for my dad and aunt one last time, I stepped out from the sliding doors. What I was about to do was unthinkable to adults, but it made perfect sense to me.
I walked the parking lot quickly, watching for cars easing in and out of spaces. At the edge of the asphalt, I turned left on Owen K. Garriott Road, named for the Enid native who spent sixty days in space. I passed the United Supermarket, then the K-Mart where we bought a Slip ’N Slide, and turned north until Chestnut Avenue.
It was along that stretch that a van eased to the shoulder and a woman leaned out the window. She asked if I needed a ride. I was still about a mile from my grandparents’ house—but every talk at school about “stranger danger” flashed through my head.
Back then, the neighborhood-watch signs were everywhere, the ones with the black silhouette in the circle and the red slash, a good reminder that some people meant harm.
I’d seen the grainy photos on milk cartons. I’d heard the stories. One of them was close enough to make every warning feel real—a boy was snatched and killed only a block from my house. The details spread through my elementary school, pieces I wasn’t supposed to catch but did anyway: a garage, torture, a horrific afternoon that ended in murder. I remember my music teacher breaking down in tears.
I didn’t hesitate. I met the driver’s eyes, shook my head, and said, “No thanks.” Then I kept walking, heart hammering but steps steady, the way a kid does when he knows the rules and follows them. Tiny legs, big mission.
I turned left onto Westwood Road, a curving stretch shaded by many beautiful trees.
For the first time since leaving Walmart, I felt safe as I entered my grandparents’ upscale neighborhood. Boxwoods lined the driveways, lawns were freshly striped, and flowering shrubs hugged the houses. The roar of traffic was gone, where nothing bad seemed possible. My heart slowed; my steps relaxed.
I continued until I reached 3116 Crestview Place. My grandparents’ brick home, with its underground pool I adored, sat a stone’s throw from Oakwood Country Club.
Phew. I had made it. Safe. Done.
I stood at their doorstep and rang the bell. My grandma Betty answered. After quickly realizing I was alone, a look of disbelief crossed her face, the kind that freezes a person before the questions can form.
“JB, how did you get here?” she asked.
“I walked.”
“From where?”
“Walmart.”
“Where’s your dad?”
“I don’t know.”
“Bernard!” she gasped, pressing a palm to her cheek.
My grandpa came to the door, his brow furrowed as he took in the scene—a six-year-old standing alone.
“JB, you timed this just right,” he said, smiling. “We were just leaving for church.”
“Let me warm you up a hot dog in the microwave,” my grandma said.
The two of them conferred and decided they would drive me back to Walmart. With my cheese-filled hot dog in hand, I climbed into the back of their Chrysler New Yorker, the leather seat cool against my legs. We pulled away, tracing the exact route I had walked.
When my dad and aunt spotted us in the parking lot, they rushed to the car, looking bewildered and relieved. My dad’s shoulders sagged when he spotted me in the back seat.
“Jeremiah,” he said, running a hand through his hair, “where on earth—”
“He walked,” my grandma called through the open window, her voice edged with equal parts scold and amazement.
Aunt Gin crouched beside the car door, eyes wide. “From here? By yourself?”
I just nodded, not sure if I was in trouble or about to be congratulated.
My grandpa gave a little shrug, as if to say, What’s done is done.
No one spoke for a moment.
“Let’s go home,” my dad said, opening the door and grabbing my hand.
On that long drive home down Owen K. Garriott Road, I was convinced I’d just passed the ultimate test of survival. Turns out, I’d only given the whole family a heart attack.
Looking back, though, that moment stuck. It told me something about myself: that even at six, I had this drive to solve my own problems.
Word Count: 1,039
Here are six “writing” takeaways from this chapter:
The Beginning
1. Lead with the Transaction
Writing is a transaction between writer and reader. I open by giving readers instant access to my six-year-old mind—trusting them with my vulnerability and humor (“At six, I was still learning about distance and speed…”).
Try This: Start your own memoir with an honest exchange—invite the reader into your world, not by telling them how to feel, but by showing them what it felt like to be you.
2. Keep It Simple
I use short, direct sentences that reveal character and context fast—no clutter, no preamble.
Try This: When writing your beginning, don’t explain the whole world. Drop us right into motion. Let the scene teach the reader who you are.
The Middle
3. One Focus, One Thread
Every piece needs unity of theme and tone. My middle holds tight to one thread—the child’s walk home. Every detail, from the street names to the stranger in the van, serves that one idea: independence in danger.
Try This: In your own memoir, don’t wander. Pick one clear emotional or narrative thread per scene, and stay true to it.
4. Write for One Reader
Don’t try to please everyone. The middle reads like I’m writing to my adult self—or the reader who remembers being small and scared. That focus makes it powerful.
Try This: Choose who you’re talking to when you write (your child, your younger self, your best friend). Then write only for them.
The End
5. Earn Your Reflection
Endings should “look back without preaching.” I did that—“That moment stuck. It told me something about myself.” It’s reflective but restrained.
Try This: Don’t tell readers what to think. End by showing how the experience lives in you now.
6. Style Is Character
My ending keeps the same voice as the beginning—plainspoken, observant, slightly wry. Your style should sound like you.
Try This: Don’t reach for drama or elegance at the end. Keep the same tone you began with, and let the story’s truth do the work.
