What a nice young man. . .

Dottie, the people I rode with (all but the old man) were wonderful to me, and I can’t see why they should have showed so much interest in me. What is harder to understand is why so many of them went out of their way to help me. I told no hard luck stories, and I tried not to look like a subject of charity. I took extra clothes along and changed in Oklahoma City. It has me puzzled. The man in Oklahoma City requested that I write him as soon as I reached home.

This is probably Lewis's graduation picture.
I'd stop and pick him up too

So Lewis mused toward the end of this first letter. I suspect he knew some of the answers, I certainly do, and Dottie surely did as well.

           

            Imagine the side of the busy highways of 1933 in the teeth of the Depression. Hitchhikers everywhere. Even if a kind-hearted driver wanted to give a ride, how to decide? How about a nicely dressed young man, white shirt, probably no tie, but I’ll bet one was in his pocket, a straw fedora shading his squinting eyes, his suit jacket tucked under one arm, carrying a beat-up suitcase and striding briskly toward his destination. (I’m partly imaging this and partly drawing on family lore.) Compared to the guys sitting on their suitcases and more than a little in need of a bath, whom would you chose to spend a couple of hours with?

Daddy never picked up a hitchhiker when Mother, my sister and I traveled with him. I suspect he did when he drove alone across the state, which was often. He did, however, often remark about them.

            “That fellow ought to get moving, nobody wants to pick up a lazy fellow,” he’d say as we passed a man sitting on his suitcase. Or, “Looks like he’d know he can get a shower at the YMCA.” Not only was he remembering his own journey; he knew what worked.

I’ve never picked up a hitchhiker, and given my ripe years, probably I won’t. My daughter confided (hope I’ve got this right, Katy) that she did once when she was driving back to college. She then spent the entire ride listening to a lecture on why she shouldn’t pick up strangers.

            Although  I’ve never picked up a hitchhiker, I’m convinced that I should return the favor to the “man from Oklahoma City” and the rest of those good souls who helped Lewis get home and start his life (and, of course, mine). It’s not the same, but here’s what I do—partly for Lewis and partly because I’m flat tenderhearted. I keep dollar bills in the outside pocket of my purse and in the console of the Jeep. We live in Houston, where times are hard and lots of folks are down-and-out. If I see, and I often see, a fellow or gal on a corner or perched on the sidewalk by a store looking hungry—don’t lecture me—I give them a couple of bucks.  I don’t need to know why their luck is out, I simply know that even the best of folks can hit hard times and need a helping hand.

            

Back Home Again in Cottonwood

Lewis must have hoped for no more excitement after the T Model Ford pickup and the old man. His wish came true. He even had a little fun.

            It felt good to be within a few miles of Texas. No sooner did he get back to the highway, than a Dodge roadster pulled up and threw the door open. The car was pretty full. A couple sat in the front seat with their son. Lewis perched on a jump seat behind. The rest of the back of the car was full—full of home brewed beer. The family was generous. Not only did they share their sandwiches, but they also absolutely insisted that he have a beer. He complied, wanting “to be congenial.”

The end of a journey--Texas State Line to the farm near Cottonwood

            Must not have been too much beer drinking going on, because they reached Ft. Worth at 10:50. Now Lewis faced another dilemma. Where, with almost no money, would he spend the night? At the bus station he learned that for $2.25 he could ride the overnight bus to Putnam where his brother Clarence lived. He figured that was better for paying for a hotel and meals the next day, so on he hopped reaching Putnam at 5 AM on Sunday.

            [An aside about Clarence—then someday I’ll do a whole entry on him. Like Lewis following his heart to be a writer, Clarence yearned to be in law enforcement, and like Lewis, he got his dream. He was Sheriff of Callahan County (where Cottonwood is) and then a Texas Ranger.]

            Once in Putnam he was almost home. On Sunday afternoon, Clarence, whom Lewis always called “my bud,” and Lewis drove to the farm outside Cottonwood where he embraced his parents, met the new family pets, a young apparently nameless dog and two cats, J. Wellington Wimpy and Snowball. After supper (always supper on the farm) he finally got to go to bed, but he was up early the next morning to grab a pen (well, he probably helped with some farm chores first) and write this long first letter to Dottie. Then he could worry about tomorrow.

Lonely Methodist Church of Cottonwood

            Would he get the job in Stephenville? If he didn’t, what would he do?

On the road again

Something like this? I'd miss lunch too!

Not too bad. On Thursday morning, Lewis had looked down a road that wound 700 miles from Columbia, Missouri to Cottonwood, Texas. Now, a mere 48 hours later, he woke in a clean bed freshly bathed and shaved from the night before, his tummy still full from last night's steak dinner. He always would relish the memory of the ride across Oklahoma in his new (and to us nameless) friend's swanky Reo. At six o'clock his host called him down to a breakfast so good that Lewis lists the menu: "grape-fruit, toast, coffee, fruit." And not just breakfast, but the offer of a loan. Lewis must have made a good impression--I can vouch that the conversation had been fascinating; Lewis didn't have any other kind.

West to Amarillo

South to Cottonwood

Now he had a mere 250 miles to knock off before he arrived to home and family in Cottonwood.  Dapper in his second shirt, he hopped on a streetcar and the journey began again. I wonder now if he didn't give a passing thought on taking a streetcar over to Route 66 and heading straight west to Amarillo and Dottie. Only a few miles further, she should be there by now, and . . .
If he did entertain such thoughts, he put them straight away and headed out for Norman where he mailed Dottie a card. Then, he says, bad luck hit again. When he finally caught a ride, he bounced along in a truck loaded with "ten tons of gasoline and oil." Not so bad until they crossed the Canadian River on a half-mile long bridge that began to "snap and groan. The driver turned pale and told me he was afraid we were going thru." They made it. They stopped for lunch and the driver paid. Lewis didn't understand why. I think I do.
After a quick ride to Ardmore, Lewis was stuck with a long wait. Naturally, he grabbed the first ride that came along, and launched onto the biggest adventure of the trip.

"Finally a T Model Ford truck stopped. It was full of people, but an old man (who seemed to be boss) in the back of the truck told me they were going all the way to the Red River (eight miles from Gainesville). So in I crawled, and we bounced down the road at about thirty per.

It's no Reo, and wasn't as clean or as empty

      The old man in back was nutty, and I hinted to him that I was "Pretty boy" Floyd. When we got within four miles of the river, we came face to face with a detour sign. The old man decided he would follow the pavement, despite the fact that the sign indicated the other road. So he told the driver to shove [? Maybe move?] it down the closed road.

      'I'll get off here,' I sez. But the car started.

      'You can ride on to th' river,' sez the old man.

      'But I want to stay on the highway.' I answered. 'Stop him.'

      'Oh, the devil,'sez the old man, a young buck like you 'orghtn' to mind a little walk. It's good for you.'

      'Stop him,' sez I, picking up a tire tool, or I'll knock you in the head.'

      He blinked.

'Stop him,' I said.

He did.

I got out.

'Think you're smart don't you?' sez the old man.

'Shut up,' sez I, turning toward the highway."
 

And on that cliff hanging note—to be continued!

  

700 Miles and a Thumb

700 Miles and One Thumb

Cottonwood is so small it doesn't make the map!

So there was Lewis, he'd just not kissed his sweetheart goodbye at the train station, he'd waved goodbye to his friend Dunn, who was headed for high adventure in New York City, standing by the side of a lonely highway ready to thumb his way to Texas. He was not off to a good beginning. He waited over five hours to catch his first ride, and then, it was only for eight miles. Not a good start.
Not a good start at all. I looked it up on Google Maps. By today’s 78-years-later highways the same route Lewis took, it’s about 740 miles and an estimated twelve or so driving hours. But on bad roads at eight mile stretches, not a good start at all. But things got better. 

  "At that time it seemed I could not continue toward Texas, and I was too far out to walk back to Columbia.     But I waited, then walked along. Pretty soon a Chevy came along and brought me about fifty miles to the junction of Highways 40 and 65."

 [Lewis was very much a typical young man--of then and now. He reports on the rides he catches, not so much (with a couple of exceptions) with the characteristics of the driver but of the kind of car he's driving. Don't believe he mentions a single woman driver, and, best I recall only one specific woman passenger. There is one truck "full of people" sex not specified. I'm guessing that then, like now, most women were disinclined to pick up riders.]
He got one good ride, and then things turned down again. So he did what apparently was for him the obvious. He started a card to Dottie. About then, a University friend appeared in the "biggest Chrysler." It was off for Springfield, and quickly. Lewis doesn't say where he spent the night [I'm betting not in a hotel.] Up early the next morning he grabbed a quick breakfast and hit the road at six. The first ride was "with a medicine show man . . . (Make me think to tell you more about him when we are in Ft. Worth)." [I hope it comes out in a letter.] Then he encountered in close order "a Chevy," "some sort of big car," and "a new Ford."
The Ford got him to Veneta, Oklahoma and let him off at a "roadside lunch room for a bite to eat." Instead he got a bit of adventure and got very hungry. [No, question. It was worth it.]
"Then is when I saw a keen looking Reo rolling down the road. I waited for it, and the driver stopped and asked me to ride. I did.
I soon learned that he was going to Oklahoma City more than 200 miles. Gee! I was hungry, but I did not tell him. I wanted to ride. We did.
When we were about half way to Tulsa, he invited me to lodge with him that night. I consented."
It worked out. It worked out more than well. The fellow--he never gets a name--explained his wife and son were in Chicago, and so they were on their own. They went to the store for steaks and the fixings. Had a lovely meal. Then "a bath and a shave and a bed that contributed much to a night of comfort." The next morning after a big breakfast, the fellow offer to loan him some money (declined) and drove him to the highway. Lewis was off on the next leg of his adventure.

The first letter

TO BE CONTINUED.