A Cry for Help

   When we were kids, we would never take the long way around if we could go off the beaten path. For most of the time, the cinder block building next to our house was not in use. Next to that building was the Valley Inn, which had a wide gravel driveway which almost touched on the driveway to the Post Office. Actually, in most weather, you could bypass the Valley Inn driveway and cut through directly behind the building straight to the Post Office or to the sidewalk on Main Street. 

   That was the path all the kids on the street followed. There was a well-worn footpath behind the buildings. This route was not hidden by any means. It was a clear and open passage right from our back yard. You could see right through to Main Street (as we called State Street then.) In memory, I can see my mother standing in the kitchen window. She would wait there when we were little and we'd turn and wave good-bye to  her when we reached the sidewalk on our way to school.

   So it felt like familiar and safe territory. And it was until one day, as she returned  from  the post office, we heard Dorothy  on the path, running and crying and yelling out loud. It even drew my father's attention, and he went outside. Dorothy, about 9 years old at the time,  was being chased by a much older boy, Bobby C. who was running after her yelling the F-word over and over. She was a fast runner and made it safely home, Her pursuer slunk back and away, not approaching our house. We never knew what motivated his behavior:   Triggered by a child's flaming red hair, or his being "not quite right."