When I was six, I ran away from home. I packed my favorite doll, Betsy, into my red vinyl purse and hit the road.

Soon after the screen door slammed behind me, I encountered a problem I hadn’t anticipated. My parents forbade me crossing the street alone. What to do?

I asked Betsy. Maybe now is the time to mention that Betsy was a “Flatsy,” one of those popular dolls of the 1960s with the disconcerting combination of luscious, shiny, three-dimensional hair attached to a flattened head and body. Betsy looked like she’d been run over by a steam roller. She did not encourage me to cross the street.