I got in big trouble with my parents only once,
and that was when I was six years old (the year, 1950). We had recently moved from New Port Richey to
Oviedo, Florida. At the time, we were
living in an old frame two-story home (soon to be replaced by a new one). On the surface, I was just playing a game of
hide-and-seek, but perhaps what I really wanted to know was how much I would be
missed if I just disappeared. Without my
parents knowledge, I hid behind the couch in the living room. Soon my parents
missed me and began to call my name both inside and outside the house. I could tell from their voices that they were
seriously worried and what I was doing was a much bigger deal than I had
anticipated. After a while, I emerged
from hiding. My parents, especially my
mother, told me in no uncertain terms never to do that again. I was sorry that I had frightened them, but pleased
to know I would be missed if something bad happened to me. I can think of nothing in my growing up years
that remotely compared to this in terms of a somber and weighty reprimand. If I needed to know I was loved, I now had memorable
proof—enough to last the passage of time.
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