PAPERWORK: Ever get the urge to walk and just keep going?

I was running away. Sort of.

That’s right. Running … well, walking away, actually.

You know the classic image, right? Normal Rockwell’s famous 1958 painting “The Runaway” captured the essence.

A young boy, buzz haircut, is sitting on a diner stool. You know the kind. A shiny metal pole with a colorful circle cushion that swivels.

The boy’s legs dangle high off the floor where you can see his homemade tote … which tells the tale.

A long stick is on the floor with a red bandana “ball” tied at the end … holding all his essentials.

He has what he needs to survive — tied up in that red bundle.

On the stool next to the boy is a police officer, dressed in his blues. He’s talking to the boy who is listening carefully.

The diner cook (and probably owner) is leaning on the counter, dressed in white, towel over shoulder.

He’s watching and listening.

His tight, slight smile pinches a cigarette. He’s clearly enjoying the “cute” moment. Listening to the officer talk the boy through his problem. (Before he takes him home.)

Cute. Yeah. That’s how the story goes.

I can recall seeing this replayed in TV families over the years. Definitely in an episode of “Leave It To Beaver.”

And I’m pretty sure Opie got the urge to ditch Pa and the grownups in “The Andy Griffith Show.”

It’s expected … a rite of passage. At some point in our young lives we decide to run away from home.

Home meaning our parents. Authority. Rules.

We suffer a huge injustice and decide no more. So … goodbye. Don’t need this. I’m leaving. You’ll be sorry.

So that was the chatter going on in my head.

I was not a kid. (As a teen I felt grownup.) But I was angry.

I can’t recall what fueled my fire, but I stormed out of the house.

I just started walking. Getting away, far away. No stick to carry my essentials. Just me.

Don’t know what I was escaping, but I do remember what happened next.

I reached the outer limits of my normal boundaries, standing at a major road that went north.

I was thinking, “This goes to Chicago.”

So I started walking north. No plan, really. Just go north. Toward Chicago.

I had this sudden desire to see how far I could go. And that I really wanted to go. See what’s ahead.

Looking back, the whole ordeal was only a moment in a bubble. But being in that bubble was glorious.

I felt like I could walk forever. There clearly was lack of reasoning because the best part of my “journey” was that I had no destination.

Just go north. See what’s over that hill.

I think I might have wondered, “Could I actually get to Chicago?”

Then, of course, the bubble burst. (Oh, I can see that diner cook smiling.)

I just stopped walking. I hadn’t gone far, but I was out of bounds. On some kind of trip … to nowhere.

I think that’s why I stopped. I wasn’t tired or afraid, but the truth finally popped into my head.

“You know you have to go back,” I told myself. Logic also telling me the farther I went north, the farther it would be going back.

So … I simply turned around and walked home. Not with the same energy, drive or anger.

But that moment, in that bubble, stayed with me. I can still feel it.

The desire to walk, just walk, and keep going. Let what’s ahead be a surprise.

No destination, other than going from not here to someplace else.

You don’t have to be an angry, frustrated kid to feel that urge.

And you don’t have to call it running away. It’s more like going to.

Maybe it’s a voice inside all of us.

A voice you have to listen to … now and then.

LONNY CAIN, of Ottawa, is the retired managing editor of The Times. Email to lonnyjcain@gmail.com or mail The Times, 110 W. Jefferson St., Ottawa, IL 61350.