I was 5 years old and furious. Conditions around the LaFlamme household had become unbearable. Enough was enough. It was time to go.

I didn’t pack a bag or anything so tedious as that. I just opened the door, stepped out and walked away from it all. I hopped on my Big Wheel, took a final look around and set off for greener pastures.

Goodbye all. This cat is moving on.

They found me within the hour, two houses down and taking a hot, bubbly bath with a neighbor girl. If only I’d been able to hold my breath a little longer, they might never have found me. But alas, I was dragged out of the tub wrapped in a towel and sent home.

The girl and I still exchange Christmas cards.

It’s the only experience I can remember with running away. I did plenty of running later in life, but by then, no one came looking.

The allure of running away got a boost earlier this year when an 11-year-old scamp named Liam made it all the way from England to Rome by sneaking aboard a British Airline flight. Liam made headlines. He got airport people in trouble and pretty much became the poster boy for running away.

The showoff. He might have made it thousands of miles instead of just scooting down the street, but did he have a girl and a box of Mr. Bubble? I don’t think so.

Most grown-ups have at least one story of childhood flight. We asked for yours and you responded with tales that range from funny to horrifying.

Heidi L. Audet, Greene

A good little rule follower

I was 5 years old. My dad said, “If you don’t like things, then run away.”

So I went outside, grabbed my golden retriever, Muffin, and we headed down the road. A half-mile down the road, I passed the mailman, who was in his personal truck, so I didn’t really recognize him. He asked where I was going, but I ignored him. By the time I got to my grandpa’s house (where I was running away to) a mile down the road, my dad had finally caught up with me.

He asked me, “Why did you leave?”

I responded matter-of-factly, “You told me to.”

Then he asked, “Why didn’t you speak to Mr. Scripture (no kidding, that was really the mailman’s name) when he asked where you were going?”

I answered, “You told me to never talk to strangers.”

My father responded, “Wow, you really DO do what you are told.”

Rick Gervais, Greene

Florida dreamin’

My name is Rick Gervais, just like that British guy, except I haven’t been called Ricky since I was 16 back in 1977, which incidentally is where my runaway story begins.

My friend Mike and I decided to take a little run to Florida and visit his mother. Mike was a foster kid up here in Maine and wanted to live with his real mother, whereas I didn’t want to live with mine — or so I thought. We had (his mother’s) address and figured, how hard could it be? So we bought bus tickets and headed south.

Along the way we saw some sights. It may have been midnight and it may have been from a moving bus, but we did see the White House. We also saw some oddly bright-red soil in Georgia. . . . We made it to Florida just fine. We knew it’d turn out fine from the moment we stepped off that bus in Florida. The first person we meet there gave us $12 in change for no apparent reason — though the sound of a fast-approaching cop car may have had something to do with it. But we just turned to each other and said, “Wow, nice place.” And then, with a strange new confidence that everything would be all right, we set out to find Mike’s mom.

We found her. No problem. She welcomed Mike and even me to stay with her. But after a couple of weeks, when the thrill wore off and the drudgery of normalcy set in, I became homesick and used the rest of my money to buy my own plane ticket home. Because, as my mother told me, if I could find my way down there, I could find my own way back.

Well, I came back to Maine and have been here ever since.

Jo-Anne Leonard Teacutter, Greene

Hung out at the laundry

At 16 I stole my neighbor’s bike and rode it from Easton, Mass., to Provincetown, Mass., which is about a two-hour drive. Slept under a tree the first night, as it took two days to get there. I was recently marveling how I was never scared, except when I crossed the Bourne Bridge.

It was October, so I broke into the cabin of a boat that was docked in a slip for the winter. For work I chopped off fish heads, shoveled ice and packed fish. Stole clothes from the store and begged money to wash them. Would’ve gotten away with it but I talked to some lady at the laundromat one day and she called the po po. I gave them fake info (the first time), so the next time that cop saw me, he arrested me because I wouldn’t say my real name. . . . Foster home after that. I did get the bike back to its owner, but the tires were bald.

Ronda Carbonneau, Lewiston

Trading up to wheeled luggage

I said I was going to run away back when I was very young. A family member said she’d pack my suitcase for me. She loaded it with heavy books and put it out on the front porch. The family spied on me as I kept attempting to lift it, but it was too heavy. I finally gave up, went back in the house and announced that I had changed my mind about leaving.

Stacey Johnson, Norway

Narrow escapes, no regrets

I ran away, not once but twice, both times cross country, both times for six months. Summary: It includes living with wiccans, traveling with the Grateful Dead (including their 20th anniversary show in Berkeley,) meeting Jerry Garcia, hanging with one of the original scummers in Golden Gate Park, hosteling at the studio where MDC was recording. And there was the time I got kidnapped by a biker gang in Texas and yet escaped unscathed and intact.

In 1984, at the age of 15, I was obsessed with Jim Morrison (deceased leader of the band The Doors) and I read “No one here gets out alive.” So I took it upon myself to hitchhike to Venice Beach. In my immature mind, I thought I’d connect with his soul. How lame is that?

Prior to Venice Beach, I hitched to Florida, tracing Jim’s steps, then stuck my thumb out for Venice.

In San Antonio, the biker incident occurred: I got a ride at a truck stop with a long-haul driver and he tried to hit on me so I told him “No!” He said “OK, we’re leaving so go use the restroom.”

I did, and when I came back he had left with all of my possessions and money. Then there were these “helpful” people that offered to take me in for the night. Being the moron I was, I accepted their offer. Their next door neighbors were bikers and said to me “Hey, c’mere.”

I did. When I walked into their garage, they closed the door down. I was taken upstairs to a room that contained a big fat dude – I’m assuming he was their leader. Anyhow, he was, for lack of a better phrase, “getting after himself.” I jumped out of the window (second story) and ran to a house across the street and banged on their door for help. They fed me dinner and then drove me to the truck stop.

As an aside, though I’m lucky that I didn’t suffer the fate of so many other teenage runaways, I don’t regret it. Other than the part about breaking my mom’s heart, that is.

Judith Ann Marden, Greene

Convoy to nowhere

I lived with my parents and grandparents, and was so mad at them I tied my doll carriage and an old four-wheeled cart and another cart with a pull-handle (wicker — now I know it was a good antique!) all together with ropes and loaded them all up with my dolls and stuffed animals and every other thing that would fit, and set off down Arlington Street in Hyde Park, Mass., to seek my fortune.

I thought if I could make it to the Neponset River, I might find better days or at least a little freedom. Our street had a good sidewalk, so I made it as far as River Street, about an eighth-mile away. But then, my entourage encountered granite curbstones . . . and alas, I was too little to haul it all over them and continue across the big highway to the river . . . so I had to turn around. Besides, I was tired and hungry. It was a long journey for a first-grader. And when I got home, nobody knew I had gone. Oh well.

P.S. Did I mention that the whole train of carriages and carts was powered by tricycle? Always a biker at heart . . .

Debbie Barker Reed, South Paris

Finding her way

I ran away at age 13 more times than I care to admit. The cops were always sent out to look for me, and it sucked living in a small town. I ran away to Lewiston where no one knew me, and met a young waitress from Denny’s. I told her I was homeless and my name was Janina. Crashed at her apartment for the night and was picked up by the cops the next day. They took me to St. Andre’s, which was a shelter back then. After a tour of the place and a list of rules a mile long, I told the nun where to go and walked out. Twenty-seven years later I have a degree in psychology.

Sarah Peters-Teixeira, Sumner

Quick trip back home

Packed my pink Barbie suitcase early one morning before anyone was awake and ran away when I was 6 or 7. Only got as far as under my garage, though. But I was gonna live there . . . until my big brother found me. And boy was he pissed! Then I felt like an ass for making my mom cry.

Janice Reed McDonald, Lewiston

The punctual bus blues

When I was about 8 years old, my mom went downtown with my baby sister to pick up some pictures she had taken. Knowing she would not be home when I got home from school, she gave me the skeleton key (remember those?) to get into the house. She told me to make sure I used the side door, as the key would sometimes stick in the front door. As I looked at the long walk to the side door, I decided it was shorter to go through the front door, so I could change clothes and go outside to play quicker.

Well, sure enough the key got stuck, so here I was waiting for Mom to get home. Needless to say, she was not a happy camper. After getting us into the house, my punishment was to fold some dish wiper towels while she went upstairs to show the pictures to her friend. I thought this was an unfair punishment, so I decided to run away.

I dug out an old, battered suitcase and put a long-sleeved shirt, a pair of long pants and half a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in it. I took my 42 cents and went down the side alley of my house. I walked from Highland Avenue in Auburn all the way to the bus station, which was located on Main Street in Lewiston without a hitch.

I got to the bus station and requested a bus ticket to Saco. The clerk asked me if someone was going to be there in Saco to meet me and I said yes, my aunt. (Not true, because she didn’t know anything about me showing up.) Anyway, she told me the price was 60 cents. When I told her I only had 42, she said, “Well that’s OK, I will give you the ticket anyway.” (Such a nice lady, I thought).

The bus was to arrive at 6 p.m., and it was now 5:55, just five minutes away from freedom. Finally the bus arrived, and just as I put my foot on the bottom step, I heard someone say, “Wait a minute, little girl.” I turned around to face a policeman who I swear was 9 feet tall.

He took my hand and said “Come with me.” We went back into the bus station and he asked my name, where I lived, etc. Well, I refused to answer, so he bought me a Rainbow Ice Cream cone (popular flavor back then.) Finally, he took me to the police station, where they tried to get me to tell them who I was and where I lived, but I wouldn’t budge. (Brat that I was.)

One officer finally got to me by telling me my mom was probably very worried and upset. At about 7:30 p.m. I finally gave them the info they wanted and they contacted my mom. She came to get me and was so happy I was OK that I only got a tongue lashing when I got home.

Stacy Millett, South Paris

Next time, cold pizza

I was probably 5 or 6 when I decided I was going to run away from home. I packed my bag and told my mom I was leaving. She asked where I was going and I told her I didn’t know.

She asked me what I was going to eat, so I went in the cupboards and got a box of macaroni and cheese.

She then asked me what I was going to cook it in, so I went back to the cupboard and got a pot.

She then proceeded to ask me how I was going to heat the water. I said I will build a fire. Suddenly I got real sad and said: “Oh, I forgot. I am too young to play with matches.”

Wendy Newmeyer, West Paris

The best runaway companion

It was 1972. I was 17. I grew up in a dynamic family: two brothers, a sister and both original parents. We lived in suburban New Jersey. We are all type-A personalities and mostly we were/are extremely supportive of each other. Even when we wanted to “run away.”

We all took a turn at it, nothing very serious and mostly for just a few hours at most. We even helped each other pack the bags.

I was having a hard time re-entering the life of a high school student after a year in Europe on an RV trip. I had dropped off the National Honor Society and everyone was worried about me except myself. I was having the time of my life!

A high school friend (Jodee Ristich, now of North Yarmouth) had been to this place in Mendocino, Calif. She called it a “free school” but it was just a hippie commune in disguise. It sounded like the perfect place for me, and I was making a plan to either drive or hitchhike across the country to check it out. My mother, Jeanne, got wind of my plan and she intervened. She said, “Let’s go together! We can fly out and visit it in style!” How could I say no?

As my father, Lou, put us on that plane, he said, “Good! I am getting rid of my two biggest problems at once!” I don’t think he meant it the way it sounded, but who cared? We were going to California!

We rented a cute little orange VW bug and headed north from San Francisco. We arrived unannounced just before dinner. I was horrified. The place was a train wreck, not just messy but really filthy. There was a big hairy guy named Bob who was in charge. My friend Jodee was there and she looked at us like we were ghosts. She was horrified. I could see no one cared about one more hot 17-year-old babe, but I watched transfixed for the next few hours as Bob and other adults made a huge pitch on my mother to please stay. The place definitely needed a mother. Jeanne was a pretty hot 44-year-old and the life of any party. She was getting along fine.

I got bored eventually and set about to clean up the kitchen. I enlisted anyone I could and we got that room shipshape before we left for a clean motel room for the night. The accommodations offered to us at Summerhill North, as it was called, were a tent or a sleeping bag in a chicken coop. No! Thank you!

We did go back the next day for a few hours, but I couldn’t get us headed back south fast enough. What a crazy place! We visited my mother’s brother in San Jose before flying home.

I guess if she hadn’t gone out there with me, I might have boxed myself into staying, although I knew immediately I didn’t belong there or even wanted to stay there. I am so glad for her wisdom and love. We are still best friends and love to reminisce of our high adventures!