Milk Carton Incident

I vividly remember being sat down with my siblings in the living room of our split level in Kalispell by my father and stepmother. The mood was immediately serious and inexplicably, I felt guilty. Family meetings of this sort were usually held to determine who had taken, eaten, or hid some food or other object.
As it turned out, the outside world had seeped under our door; we were about to have the “stranger danger” conversation. Over the next half hour, we were reminded who safe people were if we got lost, reminded to never go in a vehicle with strangers. A code word, rainbow, was established if someone other than our parents came to pick us from school or an event. With the meeting over, I retreated to my room, no longer feeling guilty, but a gnawing nervousness rumbled in my belly.

Adam Walsh had been kidnapped and hideously murdered, and soon pictures of missing children would appear on our milk cartons. As a ten year old, the fear of becoming a ‘milk carton kid’ briefly trumped my other fear of nuclear holocaust. My relationship with my stepbrother, Ryan, changed as we were now required to use the buddy system to leave the confines of home or yard. Serious negotiation and cooperation was now required for a trip to the park or the Circle K to buy candy. A sister would do in extreme circumstance.
The delight in The Little Fugitive, in my opinion, is the ability of young Joey to navigate his way to and around Coney Island without the interference of nefarious or well-meaning adult. Bosley Crowther notes in his 1958 New York Times review of the film, “A day at Coney Island with a small boy, torn between curiosity and survival, can be—and is—a lot of fun.” Joey had run away because he thinks he has done something awful. This terror slowly evaporates when he uses money left for groceries to enjoy the pleasures of Coney