The Kids of Forty-Four

A week or so past, I was roused in the middle of the night by a flurry of voicemails and texts warning me to evacuate my home immediately. It seems a warehouse caught fire, and anyone living within the vicinity of these toxic fumes was directed to flee for their lives.

They say its in moments of crisis that you really see a person’s goey center. Will they freeze in terror? Will they kick down the bedroom door, throw the wife over one shoulder, the greyhound over the other, and pack mule the whole squadron to the all-clear zone for cocoa and tin-foil blankets? OR, maybe, theoretically, they’ll use that precious window of time to…

um…

…rescue their sketchbooks?

Before you judge me—here’s several delightful scribblings from my forty-fourth sketchbook. I mean, look at this little bald kid:

He’s adorable! And raking leaves? A model of good behavior! That’s pretty rare in my sketchbooks. Most kids end up like this:

Look at these puckish weans:

Or take these kids, apparently playing together after watching the 1967 crime/drama Cool Hand Luke.

My sketchbook has filling up with these kids for months…

I mean… these lovable little scamps deserve a chance, right?

Luckily, I didn’t have to choose who needs saving. After several seconds of panicked googling, I came to realize the warehouse in question was near my former place of residence. Seems my old township still has my phone number on hand, and—just to be safe—blasted out texts and phone calls to anyone who ever lived near, worked near, or buried treasure near, the area.

So, I didn’t get a chance to see my full goey center. But some of it did ooze into my brain a little and I got a taste of who I am. And I’m pleased to say, here’s what I decided, listed in order of priority:

IN THE EVENT OF AN EMERGENCY:

1. Save everything alive.

2. Save this kid: