Growing up in my hometown of Enid, Okla., during the mid
1940
’s, I recall as high school sophomores, we hitchhiked many
places, even to Oklahoma City, 70 miles away. The other day,
noticing a hitchhiker standing at Dunne and Highway 101 with a
sign, LA, I thought of my youth.
Growing up in my hometown of Enid, Okla., during the mid 1940’s, I recall as high school sophomores, we hitchhiked many places, even to Oklahoma City, 70 miles away. The other day, noticing a hitchhiker standing at Dunne and Highway 101 with a sign, LA, I thought of my youth.
My first hitchhiking jaunts were with Richard and Bruce, whose family had friends in Oklahoma City. Bruce said this girl was really nice. So, we hitchhiked down to see her.
Wonderfully, we were welcomed into the family. The girl, Sally, had an exceptional personality as well as good looks. Her family treated us royally. Over most of that year, our hitchhiking continued.
Unfortunately, our last hitchhiking event to see Sally became a sad event. On this weekend, Bruce not only offended Sally with his attitude and behavior, but also her parents. On Sunday afternoon, her parents asked us to leave.
By some means that I no longer remember, we managed to get to “The Turn,” the Northwest Turnpike‘s long, long “turn” that led out of Oklahoma City.
Deciding that we would have a better chance of finding a ride if we spread out, we spaced ourselves over a long distance on this long curve. Bruce was first, then Richard. I was way down the curve as it straightened out.
The winter day fell into the darkness of night. A heavy mist began to fall. Occasionally, we yelled at each other over the distance. Later, as we had been standing for hours, a lonely, slow open semi-truck made the turn. It started to slow at Bruce; slowed more at Richard. It stopped at me. I climbed aboard. I asked if my friends could come also. The driver insisted that only if they got in back.
This was a cattle truck. It had just taken a load of cattle to the markets of Oklahoma City. The semi-trailer was full of what cattle leave. As ordered, Bruce and Richard ran down to where the semi had stopped and they crawled up into the trailer. Now, a heavy mist began to turn to fine rain.
The driver was tired. He said, “Can you drive?” I said, “Yes.”
The summer before, I had worked at the 7-Up Bottling Co. I had to load the trucks with cases of beverages. And, to do this I had to drive the trucks from the parking lot into the bottling building. I would turn on the engine and move the gear shift into whatever mode would move the truck. Thus at 14 years of age, I knew how to drive big trucks. (My father taught me to drive a car at 12 in 1942.)
The sleepy driver asked, again, “Can you drive this truck?” At 15 without a license I repeated, “Yes, I can drive.” As we slowed, he moved over, still holding the wheel, and I slipped under him. Quickly, I was in control of this vehicle. And, just as quickly, the driver fell asleep.
So, I drove that semi up that narrow ribbon of Highway 81 for some 70 miles. Only several times did I allow the right wheel to go off onto the shoulder of that highway ribbon. Every time, however, I quickly jerked the wheels back onto the pavement.
Finally, we arrived in Enid. I awakened the driver and got down out of the cab. I thought I had driven spectacularly. Richard and Bruce crawled down out of the semi trailer.
I have never seen such a bedraggled pair. After standing in the excrement of cattle in the rain for 70 miles, these two disgusting creatures had the nerve to ask me, “Was the driver drunk?”
Hitchhiking continued in my high school years. As I remember the summer of my junior year, Weldon convinced Bill and Jimmy (all my new friends, obviously) and I that we should follow the harvest for summer work.
So, we hitchhiked to the panhandle of Oklahoma. The harvest time had passed.
We hitchhiked to western Kansas. The harvest had passed.
We hitchhiked to Colorado. Late for harvest.
We slept in a Denver post office. I slept under a standup desk in a window well. The rains came and I woke up lying in water. I caught a cold.
We hitchhiked to Bill’s relatives in Cheyenne, Wyo. Still no harvest work. Thus, we decided to return home.
We broke up. Bill and Weldon hitchhiked together. To Jimmy’s consternation, he was stuck with sick me to hitchhike home. When we reached Enid, my parents rushed me to the hospital. I had severe strep throat.
Back then, hitchhiking was the really fun way to travel.
Or, is my mind failing.
