My fifteen-year-old cousin and I decided to run away to New York City the summer I was thirteen. Why the Big Apple? Well, why not? How would we get there? We would hitchhike, of course. We knew little of the world beyond the two-stoplight town of Nowata, Oklahoma. We could have just as easily selected Chicago or Paris. But something about the glitz and glamor of that faraway metropolis sparked our imaginations. It seemed as likely as any a destination for two unhappy adolescent girls longing to grow up and free themselves of their parents.

We planned for Martha to stay overnight on my family’s farm, two and a half miles outside Nowata. We each packed a small bag of essentials—a change of underwear and lipstick. We had very little money, but I knew my frugal brother had stashed some cash in his underwear drawer. We didn’t actually steal from him. We left a note thanking him for the loan and promising to repay him when we reached our destination and found jobs. We didn’t think about our limited qualifications for employment but were confident we would surely find work of some sort. Waitressing, perhaps. We had experience in that field, having waited tables at the local restaurant for 50 cents an hour. Plus tips. I also had experience as a car hop at the drive-in. Were there drive-ins in New York City? Well, we reasoned, probably.

We went to bed early, giggling under the covers and feeling sly about our plan to escape. We were impatient as it seemed the rest of the family dawdled unusually long before going to bed. I grew drowsy and dozed off, but Martha stayed alert. Finally, the farmhouse quieted as others went into a deep sleep.

Feeling it was safe to implement our plan, Martha and I tiptoed through the house, trying to silence the squeaking screen door as we exited. We clutched our bags, rushed across the dewy yard, crossed the pasture, and scrambled under the barbed wire fence to the county road. Giggling nervously, we paused to listen for pursuers. Nothing. We hadn’t been heard. Nobody had missed us. Onward. 

Along dusty stretches of country roads, the hum of high wires gave us pause. Was that the telephone wires? Were our parents awake and calling? Were they looking for us? A lone set of headlights crested the hill behind us, and we crouched in the ditch until the pickup passed. I don’t know if we breathed a sigh of relief or regret that it wasn’t our parents, as our bags had grown heavier, and we were beginning to tire.

The moon had risen in the starlit sky, but the night seemed mighty dark without the familiar porch light. And there were a lot of strange, unfamiliar sounds. Creatures could be heard scurrying in the brush alongside the road.  What kind of creatures were they? Friend or foe? We didn’t know, but we felt safer walking and holding hands, which is awkward when the other hand clutches a bag of belongings. Finally, after about six miles, we reached the tarmac of the eastbound highway.

A few trucks and fewer cars whizzed past us. We stopped and stuck out our thumbs as we had seen other hitchhikers do, but nobody stopped. (Thank the good Lord!) We picked up our progressively heavier bags and trudged eastward. But then, after what seemed like hours, an oncoming car slowed, flashed its lights on bright, and advanced slowly upon us. It scared the bejeezus out of us. The car stopped, and we could see it was the County Sheriff. 

“Where you gals headed?”  The officer asked through his open window.

“New York City.“ I answered.

“Y’all need a ride?” he drawled after inhaling his cigarette.

“Uh, yeah, sure,” we chimed in unison. Of course, we knew the Sheriff of Nowata County wasn’t on his way to New York City for a cup of coffee, but we were tired, our bags were heavy, our feet hurt, and a ride to just about anyplace sounded darn good. Besides, he was the Sheriff, and we knew to obey the authorities. That’s how we were raised. So, without argument, we climbed into the back seat.

“Whadda say let’s get a bite to eat afore you go to New York City?” he suggested. And that dear, sweet man maneuvered a U-turn, returning us to Nowata, where he pulled into the parking lot of the all-night diner.

Perched near the town's main intersection,  the tube-shaped stainless steel diner served simple meals to local folks and travelers twenty-four hours a day. Heads turned, and curious late-night customers stared as the Sheriff ushered us in. Butts swiveled on the vinyl-clad stools facing the Formica countertop as regulars called out greetings to the Sheriff. 

A big man, he mounted the end stool by swinging his legs over it as though mounting a horse. The seat disappeared under him, leaving only a stainless column visibly supporting his impressive weight.

Uncertain of what we were to do, we stood clasping each other’s hands and our bags while staring at him like deer in oncoming headlights. He grunted and nodded his head at the two empty stools beside him. That’s all the invitation we needed to claim our places at the counter.

A buxom, weary-eyed waitress slapped a cup of coffee and a generous piece of pie in front of the Sheriff before he could ask for one. Obviously, she was well acquainted with his routine. Judging by his girth and how his belly pressed against the counter, he was a frequent visitor. The cook peered from his kitchen domain through the pass-through, his white paper hat sitting askew on his bald head.

“Who’s your travelin’ companions, Sheriff?” he called out, the ashes of a cigarette dangling from one corner of his mouth dangerously close to falling onto the plate of food awaiting the waitress.

“Just a couple of gals on their way to New York City,” the sheriff answered.

The cook merely grunted and nodded in response. The other diners resumed the hum of their conversations. The waitress scarcely acknowledged our presence except to hand us menus. No one laughed or ridiculed us. We were made to feel welcome as we settled in the warm presence of strangers, as though two teenagers stopping by on their way to New York City were a regular thing that happened every shift.

We were hungry and thirsty and quickly devoured our cheeseburger and fries, slurping deliciously cold Coca-Cola. All three were a rare treat. As we mopped up the last ketchup-drenched fries, the Sheriff excused himself to go to the bathroom. We took that opportunity to grab our bags and slide out the door, then ran as fast as we could for the safety of the farm. I’m sure the Sheriff, the cook, the waitress, and other customers had a good laugh. 

I shudder now, sixty-five years later, when I think about what our fate might have been except for that kind-hearted Sheriff on a steamy summer night. Two rebellious teenage girls eager to experience the world were a fine example of the old country saying of jumping out of the frying pan into the fire.

I suspect he followed at a distance to ensure we made it home safely. Nowata is a small town, but he kept our secret and didn’t tell, not even our parents. He saved us from harm and kept us safe. For him, it was all in a night’s work. For me, a chance to grow into adulthood to satisfy my longing to explore the world.