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Hitchhiking in the Winter of 1973
I hitchhiked approximately 5,000 miles in the early 1970s. I didn’t have money for a car but I loved to travel, and many journeys I took were impulsive decisions. Sometimes I’d catch rides with people driving their cars in the general direction I wanted to go without even sticking out my thumb on the side of the road. Bulletin (cork) boards where you used pushpins to post notecard-sized notices were all over the University of South Dakota (USD) campus, and those with extra room in their cars easily connected with people looking to ride share. Think, “Need to get to Minneapolis Friday January 12, have gas money, call 658-1234” meets “Headed to the Twin Cities this weekend, can take 3 with me, share gas costs, call 658-0000.” Mutual benefits, problems solved!
Often I didn’t have gas money to contribute to a ride share, but that never stopped me from hitting the road for a weekend jaunt or a spring break adventure. A strong right thumb and confident smile were all I needed. Sometimes, the biggest hurdle was getting to the nearest major highway to launch another escapade. (My mother often dropped me at the intersection of I-90 and I-29 near Sioux Falls, South Dakota when I decided to take off. Yes…my mother.)
SO, A HITCHHIKING STORY:
One spur-of-the-moment trip over 50 years ago stands out in my mind. As I finished lunch in a dormitory cafeteria on a Thursday in January, 1973, two guys from my dorm floor approached me:
“Let’s skip Friday classes and go to Denver! We know some people there we wanna see. Wanna go?”
I didn’t have a Friday class and had no plans. “Why not?”, I said.
A few hours later we were out the door.
Lou, who owned a Dodge Charger 440 Magnum, drove us from USD to Denver in seven hours (560 miles), averaging more than 80mph. (I once went 155mph with Lou in his Charger, so we were always less fast-driving and more low-flying travelers.) We left at 4pm and arrived in Mile High City before midnight.
On the way to Denver, Lou and his Boston buddy (I’ve forgotten his name) informed me they were going to hook up with two women they knew and that (maybe) the women had a friend. Whoa boy, that changed things for me! I thought this would be a three-guys adventure; now it sounded like I was going to be a third (or fifth) wheel…I sure wasn’t interested in hanging out with strangers for a weekend. Dread ensued, but I kept my thoughts private.
When we arrived at the women’s apartment, things got worse: they told us they weren’t interested in spending the weekend entertaining us. They announced the SD boys could sleep on their floor and couches overnight since it was so late, but we were to vacate in the morning. The mood immediately changed for my Boston buddies. Clear that their plans to party with the Denver women weren’t panning out, they turned surly, immediately claiming the two couches and delegating me as the sleep-on-the-floor guy.
The next morning (now Friday), things continued to go downhill. We were offered nothing for breakfast, so the three of us packed up early and headed out. Lou exited with an exclamation mark, burning rubber in street outside the apartment to let the women know we’d left. Before we hit the end of the block, Lou and his sidekick announced they’d decided we were heading up into the Rockies to tour the Coors beer factory and get drunk. Other than that, they had no plans. So here’s my situation: (1) I’m with two pissed-off guys planning to drink and roam steep and winding mountain roads with no destination; (2) they had money to rent hotel rooms and drive a gas-guzzling car all weekend, but I didn’t. I offered another option: perhaps we should just drive back to USD and cut our losses. They quickly vetoed that idea, saying I was free to hitchhike back but they were here to party. The vote was over: two to one, I lost. I made a snap but confident decision and said, “Just drop me off at the interstate.” What a mess. Time to hitch home.
We pulled into a grocery store parking lot to buy breakfast before parting ways. As we walked into the store, I noticed a young blonde getting out of her car. The Ford had Kansas plates, and the woman had a no-nonsense, determined walk. I found myself standing in line behind her in the check-cashing line when I decided to take a chance. I tapped her on the shoulder:
Me: “Hey. I noticed your car and see you’re from Kansas. Headed east this weekend?”
Her: “Yep. My little sister is playing basketball tonight. Gotta be there to support her!”
(a long pause…she looks me over)
Me: “Well…I’m Frank, and I’m headed east.” (I told her about my friends’ plans to drive drunk up in the Rockies.) “These guys were going to drop me off at the interstate ramp so I could hitch home. Would it be OK if I rode east with you? You can drop me on the side of the road when you get off I-70.”
Without hesitating, she responded, “Sure! I’m Julie. Let’s grab some coffee and head out.”
I met the guys at Lou’s car to grab my backpack and told them I was leaving with Julie.
“You’re on your own then,” Lou said, more pissed off than ever because I was with a woman, and they weren’t.
“I’ll be fine. You guys be careful.” I meant it…I felt safer catching a ride with a stranger than riding in their back seat all weekend.
Tossing my backpack into her trunk, we waved at the Charger and headed east. An hour into the drive, we’d gotten well acquainted. Julie was unguarded and witty, regaling me with her university tales. When she was stopped for speeding, she talked the trooper out of a ticket with her “my little sister needs me at her basketball game, and that’s why I’m in a hurry!” story (which happened to be true). Laughing as we pulled away from the traffic stop, she surprised me: “Why don’t you just come stay with my family this weekend? You probably won’t get all the way home today anyway, so you’ll need a place to stay tonight….” It was an easy “yes” from me!
Over the weekend I attended a small-town high school “girls'” basketball game, devoured several home-cooked Midwestern meals, learned a bit about HVAC (heating, ventilation, and air conditioning) from her father, and was introduced to the wonders of duct tape (he gave me a roll, “for the road, in case you need it”). We’d all bonded, and I was now fast friends with a hospitable family I’d just met.
Sunday morning arrived, and Julie told me she’d decided to drive 100 miles out of her way to get me to I-80 in Nebraska before turning southwest and returning to Denver. I was moved by her generosity, speechless and humbled. She rejected my offer of cash (what little I had) to help pay for gas. She gave me a hug as we stood on the edge of the Nebraska interstate highway and said goodbye. Julie drove west; I stuck my thumb out toward the east, hoping to hitch just enough rides to get back to South Dakota by nightfall.
I got as far as Omaha that day before my luck ran out. Standing on an entrance ramp to I-29, no one was stopping to pick up a guy with a hooded parka and backpack on a dark, snowy Sunday night. I gave up at 9pm, climbed a fence, and walked to a church I’d spotted from the interstate. The sign on the lawn told me it was Lutheran, and I knew Lutheran churches often had parsonages (church properties where ministers lived) close by the parish properties. The house next door to the church had a similar style, so I knocked on the door and hoped for the best. The man who opened the door was the church’s pastor. Lucky me.
I told him I had run out of luck hitching rides and asked him if I could sleep overnight in his church building. To convince him I was a good guy, I told him I’d spent the last two summers lifeguarding and counseling at a Lutheran Bible camp in Minnesota. A small-world moment followed: we discovered a common connection to another Lutheran pastor! Now believing I could be trusted, he let me into the church. After devouring an offered sandwich he’d made before walking me next door, I rolled my sleeping bag out on a pew and slept, warm, safe, and dry.
The next morning, now Monday, I walked to the I-29 entrance ramp and had my thumb out by dawn. Providence was with me: three hours and two rides later, I was in Vermillion. I made my 12:00 noon class at USD, even having time to shower in my dormitory before hustling to class.
Oh, yes, Lou & friend…they made it back safely. I didn’t ask about their weekend, and they never asked about mine. In fact, I don’t think we spoke much after that.
CODICIL:
Lori and I invited Julie and her family to our wedding. Although they couldn’t attend, they sent us a lovely gift and card. We all exchanged Christmas cards for several years, but over time we lost touch.
When I think of Julie and her family, I recall their warm, welcoming home and the generosity a Kansas gal and her surprised family extended to me when I was stranded, turning a potentially tragic weekend trip into a fond, memorable one.
I have many hitchhiking tales. But you need to know the early 1970s was a special time for those of us who rode our thumbs, a brief window of relative safety for those hitching rides and the generous folks pulling over to offer a lift. I haven’t picked up hitchhikers for decades, and if our daughter Allison had ever threatened to hitchhike, I would’ve bought her a car on the spot! Of course, hitchhiking was fraught with risks, especially in the winter weather we have in the upper Midwestern USA. But I never had a “bad ride,” and I met many gregarious, big-hearted people along the way.
As my friend Mike (who hitched far more than I) is fond of saying: Onward.
A STORY ABOUT MY DAD
My dad has now been gone 40 years. I’ll write about him in my blog soon.
Here’s one of my favorite stories about him:
My high school had a student exchange with a Sarasota, Florida school my senior year, and I was lucky enough to have my name drawn in the lottery to participate in the exchange along with about 40 of my class peers. “Bobby” was my Florida exchange partner. He bunked with our family in February 1972, enjoying his first exposure to snow and South Dakota hospitality, and I stayed with his family in balmy Florida a couple of months later.
Our high school hosted a “computer match dance” while the Sarasota kids visited. Every senior plus the exchange students filled out paper questionnaires, punch cards were created and run (ancient, I know), and we were matched for the dance based on our responses. Bobby was paired with “Suzie,” whom he had met…and Suzie was quite a large young woman.
When he found out Suzie was his computer-matched date for the next evening’s dance, Bobby was distraught. He peppered me with questions. “I don’t know if I want to go to the dance. Should I go? Do I HAVE to go? Would I be stuck with this girl all evening? Could I dance with other girls, or would that be rude?”
Although he didn’t voice it, Suzie’s size was his obvious reason for hesitancy. I shrugged…I didn’t confront his bias. I hardly knew the guy, and I didn’t want to jeopardize having a pleasant stay when I was with him in Florida or create conflict while he was in South Dakota. I saw it as his problem, his choice; I was going to the dance whether he went or not.
The evening before the dance, Bobby puzzled aloud on the situation with my dad as the three of us lingered in the living room of our small home. (Bobby was aware Dad knew Suzie. And although Bobby assiduously avoided mentioning Suzie’s size, it was clear Dad had figured this all out…)
Bobby: “What should I do, Mr. Thomas?”
Puffing on his meerschaum pipe, my dad took a serious tack. “Well, Bobby, here’s an idea: You walk up to Suzie when the band starts up and ask her to dance.” He paused and pointed his pipestem toward Bobby. “After the first song, turn to her and say, ‘You know, you don’t sweat much for a fat girl.'” Then Dad turned his eyes back to his newspaper.
Bobby was stunned – I felt more than heard his jaw hit our hardwood floor – and confused. He couldn’t tell if Dad was joking (no one could…he was a phenomenal poker player), and I wasn’t giving him any hints. Then Bobby burst out in laughter. “Man, am I SHALLOW! I can’t believe I judged this girl by her size! I don’t even know her!”
My dad’s point. Exactly.
By now both Bobby and I were laughing…and Dad was still puffing on that pipe, immersed in a news story, not cracking a smile.
Of course Bobby went to the dance. And he asked Suzie to hit the dance floor the minute the band struck the first chord. They danced most of the evening together, only taking breaks to mix with friends old and new, and they became fast friends.
Dad’s indirect communication style was a perfect fit for the situation. Because he took a soft, nonconfrontational approach, Bobby came to see his so-called conundrum for what it was – judging another person based on their size – without being shamed or feeling judged.
I never heard my dad speak badly about others, and he would quietly leave a room if he couldn’t redirect group conversations focused on gossip. His storytelling was detailed and drawn out; his jokes went on forever. And you caught his wisdom only if you paid attention. Bobby got it…I got it.
AN INTERVIEW WITH LACONIA THERRIO, STORYTELLER
Laconia Therrio, from Stamford, CT, is a hospital chaplain and professional storyteller. Born in Louisiana, he majored in Bible and history in his undergraduate work and later earned a master’s degree in counseling psychology. Laconia has also worked as a youth minister and had a long career as a psychotherapist.
FNT: I’ve wanted to interview you for quite awhile. But your recent post on Facebook about the new immigrant boy from Ecuador really pushed me to set this up.
LT: It was such a lovely moment! We were just hamboning. But the little boy from Ecuador didn’t know any English and was being left out. So fistbumping with him and switching to a lot of nonverbals got us connected.
FNT: It sure did. Tell me something few people know about you that says, “this is who Laconia is.”
LT: I had to do a class presentation in a graduate school class, and the theorist I chose to present on was Carl Rogers. Thinking about how I’d approach this, I thought about Carl Rogers’ public face: open, available, transparent. Then it came to me: I wonder if he’s listed in the phone book? I looked and, sure enough, there was a Carl Rogers in the Los Angeles area. So I called him – and he answered the phone! I told him why I’d called him, and we talked for 10 to 15 minutes. I got a sense of his voice and how he spoke from that conversation, and I wove that into my presentation. My classmates were astounded that I would call him, but I thought, “hey, why not?”
FNT: Love it! Thanks for the lead-in. Now, I sent you some questions to ponder related to your life as a storyteller and as a chaplain –
LT: — and they were tough questions!
FNT: Glad they challenged you. Which ones appealed the most to you? (We discuss what we can get through in the time we have). So, how has storytelling influenced your work life? Your daily life? Your relationships?
LT: I’ll talk about relationships. When I was younger, I used to have this need to be liked. I thought I had to love or like every person I met. Then something came to me as I got into storytelling: I figured out that if I don’t like a story, I don’t need to know why don’t I like it. I just don’t. And I’ve come to apply that in my life. There are some people I don’t like; some I do like; and that’s OK. I’ve shed some people in my life by applying this to my relationships.
I’ve also learned that this approach to stories made my “yes” and my “no” that much clearer. Used to be if I liked a story, I had to understand why, and the same for people I liked or didn’t like. Not anymore!
Another thing: Used to be I’d say “yes” to people when I didn’t want to. I was doing it to be liked. Learning to accept that I don’t have to say “yes” led to me learning to say “no” more. I started using the phrase, “let me think about that.” So my relationship with storytelling influenced my figuring out what and who I liked.
FNT: Sounds like choosing your stories to tell led to a major change in how you relate to people.
LT: It did, it did. Now, something you need to know about me: I have 229 godchildren! Seven are “official” – their parents asked me to be their godfather. But I have 222 who have asked me, “can you be my godfather?”! They range in age from kids to age 59. You see, storytelling is really about people’s stories. Learning another’s story means you see them; if you don’t know their story, they can’t be seen. When I tell stories, I talk about my godchildren a lot. Sometimes, it’s a whole group who ask me to be their godfather, all at once! There were 18 elderly women who attended a storytelling time in Greenwich when I spoke about all my godchildren. One of them stood up and said, “Who wants to be his godchild?” ALL of them said, “I DO!”
FNT: (laughs) What shifts when you say “yes” when you’re asked, “will you be my godfather”?
LT: It’s the closest I’ll get to being like Jesus. “Let the little children come unto me.” Not having my own children, it allows me to feel like I have very special relationships with children of all ages.
FNT: Beautiful. How about this question: What’s your favorite chaplaincy story?
LT: There was this nurse who was not a believer (FNT: Christian), but she really liked what I did with patients. We had a patient, a guy with cancer, and he was an atheist. And he was dying. The nurse said to him, “you need to talk with Laconia. He’s a chaplain, but you can talk to him.” So the guy agrees to talk with me. I walk into his hospital room. The patient says to me, “I’m an atheist. I’ll give you one chance. You can ask me one question. If I like the question, you can stay; if not, we’re done.” I paused and then I said, “give me a couple of minutes.” You know, what I said I learned earlier today, “let me think about it”? Well, we sat there for three minutes. Then I looked up at him and said, “How do you get your joy?” He started crying. “I didn’t expect that question from you,” he said. We talked for 45 minutes, and he told me his family wasn’t supportive of him in his journey toward death. When I left he said, “you’re welcome to come in any time.” That three minutes of silence allowed the question to come from somewhere, and it did…it came to me, and I said to myself, “that’s the question.”
FNT: You just told a story about your own experience…in my mind’s eye, while you were sitting for three minutes thinking about the question you would ask him, I could see the patient…I heard his thoughts: “What’s this? Why doesn’t he just ask a question so I can get him out of here? I know what he’s going to ask: ‘Where do you think you’ll go after you die? What’s dying like? How can I help?’” But you surprised him – and yourself! – with, “How do you get your joy?” Your question – and you – were both outside his imagination. Your silence was the story.
LT: I’ve never thought about it like that before…now I have goosebumps!
FNT: Me too! OK, here’s the third question you said you’d be interested in discussing: What is your most memorable storytelling experience?
LT: I was at a workshop in the mid-1980s, and I was telling “The Basket.” It’s a Muslim story (read it here). While I was telling the story, I had noticed a blonde woman – her eyes were huge, and I could tell the story was affecting her. After the workshop finished, the 25-year-old came up to me and said, “I know why you told that story.” “Please share,” I said. Tearfully, she replied, “My father sexually abused me from age five to eighteen. Until I heard this story, I thought it was my fault. This story…this story means I can get my basket back.” She learned she had the power to say “no.” I bring her spirit with me whenever I tell “The Basket.”
(we sit silently for a while)
FNT: Thank you. Thank you. Based on our conversation today, I’m know you’re a powerful storyteller.
LT: I want to be a good conduit for the story.
WORMSLOE PLANTATION SLAVE BADGE Chapter 1
Although slavery may have been abolished, the crippling poison of racism still persists, and the struggle still continues. ~Harry Belafonte
The online ad said this unique “slave badge” was purchased from an estate sale in a Southern US state. That was it. I saw the photo and was immediately intrigued, fascinated – I’d never seen nor read about anything like it. Questions popped into my head: Who was Aunt Jane? Where was this plantation? Was “story teller” a role, a trade? An identity? Was the title hers by choice or was it assigned to her? I decided to purchase it, in part because I didn’t want this unique historical item to be exploited (“Hey! Look here! I’ve got a slave badge! I wonder if my great-great-great granddaddy owned her?”). It deserved to be preserved and protected, and I pledged I would not be its permanent owner…and even before it arrived via the postal service, I started my research (see below).
When the badge arrived, I handled it like as if it was a tiny porcelain tile. I had imagined it might be fragile or rusted, fractured or crumbling. But I quickly discovered it was robust. It was constructed of metal, without rust, and some coating or material was permanently attached to the reverse side. I sealed it from the elements and placed it in a safe place, continuing my research.
A month later, I took it to a regional coin show. There I sought out an exonumist (a person familiar with tokens, medallions, and other items of value) and asked him to inspect the badge. His careful examination led him to believe it was likely more than a century old and made of copper. He couldn’t authenticate it, as he’d never seen one before, but he was entranced! So, back home it went…but my curiosity was amplified!
I’m continuing my research, seeking out documents and experts (including historians associated with the Wormsloe Historic Site and academics and authors who have researched slave badges) who might shed light on this mystery. In the meantime, I have a plan for the badge: to give it to a Black person or institution who will honor Aunt Jane and value the badge’s history. Keeping it safe at home is but a rest stop; it needs to be with people who can keep the story alive in ways I cannot. I’ll keep you posted!
Onward,
/fnt/
BACKGROUND
Wormsloe Plantation | Wormsloe Historic Site (GA)
The Wormsloe Plantation, now the Wormsloe Historic Site (State of Georgia, USA), was owned by a white family in three difference centuries. Its eight-foot walls boasted cannonsand was part of a line of defense from Saint Simons Island (part of theologian John Wesley’s brother Charles Wesley’s story) to Savannah on the coast of Georgia. Black people were enslaved there from the 1750s through 1865. Though it was a working farm after enslaved people were freed, it lost productivity (of course) and passed from family member to family member until it became a tourist destination in the 1920s. An educational/conservation site in the 1960s, it was purchased by the Nature Conservancy in 1972. The Conservancy transferred the title to the State of Georgia in 1979, which commissioned it as a historical site and opened it to the public in 1979.
Here is a bit of background regarding the slave badge and its use in Charleston, SC (it was also used in Mobile, AL, New Orleans, LA, and Savannah, GA, which is near Wormsloe):
“These small metal badges, most often made of copper, were produced in Charleston, South Carolina between 1800 and the Civil War. They were worn by slaves working in the city; slaves living and working on the rural plantations were not required to wear them. The badges only identified the type of work they were permitted to do. …Slave owners would purchase a badge from the City of Charleston. The wages earned by a hired-out slave belonged to their owners. … The badges were typically sewn to clothing and gave the wearer more freedom of movement within the city than would be given to a slave working on a plantation. Badges were dated and were issued annually and became a source of tax revenue for the city. … Ironically, slave badges which may be looked at as tagging a human as if property, may actually be evidence of relative freedom of movement within Charleston and a means of income for a slave and his or her family.” (National Museum of American History – Smithsonian)
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Waymon Hinson
Wonderful conversation between the two of you. The dying man in the hospital was riveting and the woman and the basket provocative.
When two story tellers engage, the stories that emerge. I can only imagine!! Thanks to both if you!!
franknt1
I loved being in this conversation with Laconia and hope we do more together. Thanks for engaging, my friend…as you introduced me to him!
Laconia Therrio
OK, now I am intrigued.
It is painful to read of such, but not surprising. When humans are considered chattel, I imagine anything can be justified to confirm place, position, and stature; or the lack of…
I appreciate the spirit of honoring her by waiting for whatever guides you to give it to either an individual or organization…
It occurs to me that her spirit may know that she is finally being seen…
franknt1
Lovely thought, Laconia. I pray her spirit is at peace. Watch for your interview on the same page today!