November 1, 2024
Just Saying…
On the Road: A Thanksgiving Adventure
By Q.C. Jones
As strange as it may sound when applied to today’s views on personal safety, in my younger days I viewed hitchhiking as a mode of transportation.
This habit began innocently enough at about age 12 with rides from my family’s home in the country into town. We lived on a widely traveled rural highway. Many of the rides came from neighbors going into town for groceries or some other errand.
The process was simple, I went out to the edge of the road, held out my thumb to signal the need for a ride, and somebody would stop. Most commonly, the driver would say, “You’re that Jones kid. I know your mom and dad.” We would engage in chit chat over the four miles into town, and I would jump out when we approached my destination.
As I got older, perhaps at 16 or 17, my views on hitchhiking were nourished by literature. Beat Generation writer, Jack Kerouac, inspired the young QC with “On the Road” and other works. Kerouac equated the practice of hitching rides and traveling through the country as an American birthright. Traveling to strange and faraway places appealed to the small-town QC Jones.
It made perfect sense that rather than line up some other form of transportation, I would just hitchhike the 90 miles, from college home whenever I had the urge. One such event was the Thanksgiving of 1972.
It was the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, and I had a gruelingly difficult test late in the afternoon. I had been up most of Monday night “cramming” for the test, so I was tired and operating on raw nerves and caffeine as I headed back to my place to grab my stuff for the weekend.
Along the way I took note of the weather. It was overcast and the wind carried the bite of late fall/early winter. Arriving at my room, I loaded my clothes and a couple of books into an army surplus duffle bag and prepared for the trip. Based on my weather observations, I tossed a couple of extra sweatshirts into the bag, donned my favorite leather coat, and selected my winter cowboy hat. I was perfectly outfitted for hitchhiking.
Straying from my hitchhiking story, pardon me as I provide perspective on the coat. It had been given to my father when he became a letterman at the University of Houston. Distinctive red with white trim, the garment carried a special faded spot where his “H” was once attached. Over the years, dad wore it while hunting and it bore the scars of dozens of brambles, thickets, and an occasional snag on barbed wire. It was ragged beyond belief, but had a uniquely rugged swagger left in it.
Leaving the campus area, I soon got a ride from a family returning to their farm just outside of town. They were kind enough to drop me at the entrance to the highway. So far so good, lady luck was traveling with me.
My next ride was about 25 miles down the road. The day was turning to night, but I wasn’t concerned. I was almost a third of the way home and would probably be able to get home at a reasonable hour.
Just as I bid farewell to my second ride, the night air began to develop a slight mist. Hopefully, my next ride would come soon – but it didn’t. As I stood next to the busy road, the mist turned to rain, and the temperature dropped to freezing. As each car or truck zoomed past, I was pelted with a slushy mix of rain and snow. The visibility was poor, which diminished my chances of being picked up by passing strangers. Worse yet, my cowboy hat was starting to drip water down the nape of my back.
Finally, after about 45 minutes a car with three guys stopped for me. Lucky me. I tossed my duffle bag into the back seat and climbed in. It took me about 30 seconds to
comprehend the situation. These fine gentlemen were drunk, not just tipsy, but dead drunk. As we sped down the highway, the car slid to-and-fro, and after each occurrence they laughed and took another swig of gin. My life flashed by.
Somewhere near Decatur, Illinois, I decided it would be better to take my chances without a ride than continue the last 25 miles with these fools. I jumped out at an intersection and walked about three miles through the darkened inner city of Decatur before stationing myself on the main road home.
Past midnight, a pickup truck stopped. The driver wasn’t going all the way to my hometown but decided to go out of his way to give me a ride to my parents’ house. It was nearly 2:30 AM when I stumbled into the back door of my family home.
That year, I had much to be thankful for. I was alive and it was Thanksgiving… Just saying.
