This is a distant memory from the summer of 1969 that made quite an impression on me. It will become apparent why this memory remains as my story progresses. I'll try to recount accurately a brief adventure in the Deep South that I will never forget.
In June 1969. I was eighteen and had just graduated from Valley High in Lucasville, Ohio, so I was ready to make this summer – the one before entering college in the fall – the best ever. In recent past summers, I had worked lifeguarding at Lake Margaret, but this summer I took a break to help my brother Phil move back to Ohio from Gulfport, Missississpi, where he had been employed for quite a few years helping work on the Saturn V rocket for the Apollo program.
I was staying with Phil at his apartment complex in Gulfport for a couple weeks before the move. We had left his wife and two kids at Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, with her parents, because she was expecting a third child at any time. At his apartment in Mississippi, Phil and I packed belongings, cleaned, and got things ready for the move. He had to work until the day the movers came, so I had that time free. He had a pickup there, so when he caught a ride in his carpool, I had the truck to drive around and explore. But, when it was his turn to drive, I didn't have any transportation.
The stay started great. One night Phil was able to take me out to the space facility. It was really cool, and I don't know how he managed to get permission, but I was able to go to the actual rocket – I mean be there beside it.
I felt pretty important and lucky. How many young men can say they got the opportunity to experience history this close and personal? The nation was all abuzz about Apollo and the moonshot. This was the summer of the first landing. (Believe it or not, after we got Phil's family back to Ohio, his daughter Cheryl was born on July 21, 1969 – Armstrong's touchdown day. That's why I always call Cheryl “Moon Baby.”)
My stay also included a trip to New Orleans. Phil and I didn't really do anything crazy in the Big Easy, but just being there was an experience for a boy from Southern Ohio. The phrase “wide open” comes to mind. If you have been there, you know the atmosphere of which I speak; if you haven't, I can assure you it's a place that is truly one of a kind. The music, the food, the people – it's a cultural mix like no other.
Please, allow the following foreshadowing to help you better understand my recollection.
Let me tell you, it's blazing hot on the Gulf in summer. Doing things outdoors in the afternoon isn't advisable. But, Phil's complex had a really nice pool, and the apartment was very close to a beach on the Gulf, so I had plenty to do. The evenings were heaven. Water was such a part of my existence then. It was great to explore this new place and the attractions around Gulfport. It doesn't hurt to have beer to drink and girls in bikinis to feast your eyes upon either. And, as luck would have it, I had the truck to drive. This was a great start to the summer of my dreams.
Now, let me also explain that I was in Mississippi during segregation. I had been there a few other times earlier in the 60s to visit my brother but not with the freedom to roam around on my own. True, I was white, but people down there didn't like Yankees meddling in their business. Let's just say they were suspicious of outsiders.
My friend recently reminded me that possibly the only things crackers hated worse than blacks seeking freedom were long-haired hippies from the North. Now, I didn't have long hair then, but I liked plenty of so-called hippie music and culture, and I think segregationists could literally smell the “northern hippie” in my blood. It was not some Margaret Mitchell fiction – the Lost Cause and the Civil War were still oppressive themes in the Deep South, even at that time.
Let me give you a little background about Mississippi in the 60s …
In August 1963, Martin Luther King Jr. had said: “I have a dream that one day even the state of Mississippi, a desert state, sweltering with the heat of injustice and oppression, will be transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice.” That “one day” was far from becoming a reality in 1969. In fact, I was walking around in Mississippi just months after King had been murdered in Memphis.
In the years 1963-68, civil rights activists and hard-line segregationists battled like never before. Militancy in both camps increased in the mid-1960s. After the Ole’ Miss crisis, the unity of white segregationists began to crumble. Moderate whites were shocked by the violence at Ole’ Miss and began to abandon the Citizens’ Council. But white hard-liners began to feel that the Citizens’ Council was no longer doing enough to fend off integration. Beginning in 1963, much of the violence directed at African Americans (and their white allies) in Mississippi was organized by the Ku Klux Klan.
This was no bullshit about the KKK. The Klan was real and active and deadly. Black folks feared them, and for good reason. The KKK considered blacks the lowest of the low in Mississippi social hierarchy. Whites who favored integration feared them too. If you were known to support the black cause, you were labeled as an “N----- lover” and you faced violence and worse.
The racial terrorism ranged from cross-burnings and church-bombings to beatings and murder. In the summer of 1964 alone, Mississippi journalist Jerry Mitchell reports, “Klansmen had killed six [people], shot 35 others and beaten another 80. The homes, businesses and churches of 68 Mississippians associated with the civil rights movement were firebombed.”
But, enough exposition, let's get to the meat of my story.
Hitchhiking was pretty common in 1969. Back home I had hitchhiked some, not a lot, but I had my fair share. I remember one time in my teens hitchhiking from Portsmouth to Lucasville and being picked up by a guy extending his hand to me as I entered the car. He said, “I'm Oakley Collins, your representative.” He was actually a politician from the area who considered giving a young guy a ride a good investment for a future vote.
From this and a few other experiences, I saw no need to fear sticking out my thumb and “catching a ride.” Remember, these days were different. I would never recommend that anyone hitchhike today, and the rest of this story will tell you why.
I forget what day it was, but Phil had to drive to work. As I mentioned before, this left me without a means of transportation. The day was even hotter than the normal hot Mississippi summer day, so I decided to hitchhike to a mall in Biloxi and check out the stores and the air-conditioned scene. The mall was about 12 or 13 miles away, not too far. So my inexperienced, immature mind said, “Let's get on the road.”
My brother had already left for work. I exited the apartment around 11:00 A.M. without telling a soul about my little adventure, and I happily braved the intense heat feeling that getting a ride in Mississippi would not be tough at all.
However, I hadn't counted on the first leg of my journey being a distance across a long bridge over a bay, a place where no driver would brave pulling over and picking me up. I walked and stuck out my thumb and walked and stuck out my thumb … ad nauseam. I was sweating so profusely that I was drenched and dripping as I walked off the bridge onto the Highway 90 (Beach Boulevard) that ran along the Gulf.
And, believe it or not, about the first car that could pull over did so. I ran to the door of the small sedan. A driver, normal-enough looking, who appeared to be in his forties asked where I was going. I said “Biloxi” and he said “OK.” I quickly got in on the driver's passenger side and shut the door. There was no one else in the car. And, we began to speed down the highway.
After a few minutes of small talk, the driver began a strange line of questioning. He – out of the blue – asked: “If you happened to die today, would you know where you were going?” I didn't catch on at first, but I soon realized he was preaching a message of salvation for the end of my time. I answered something back – I don't remember what, but something to appease the man and hopefully change the subject.
But, this guy began to use a demanding voice. He wasn't just delivering his message, he was wanting something in return. I sensed this and by now I noticed he looked pretty rough and squirrelly, not unlike that stereotypical cracker I despised. He was no longer some nice fellow giving me a ride; instead, he was applying pressure and prying into my business. I couldn't believe I had climbed into his car. Suddenly, this was no vacation for good old Frank from Lucasville.
The guy wanted to know what I believed, if I had been saved, and what I was doing with my life. It was then I caught my first look at what lay on the bench seat between us. You see, until that time I didn't want to appear imposing and I hadn't looked at any details in his car. For the first time, I saw that right there on the space between us lay a Bible with a menacing-looking pistol resting on top. Nut case, gun, judgment day – it all added up. I was a target and soon to become a victim.
My mind raced as I tried to keep my cool. I just knew then this guy was some homicidal fruitcake, a mass murderer bound for hell who had picked me up to make me his latest sacrifice. My fate would be sealed with a shot to the head down some sandy road in rural Mississippi. My brother, my family … no one would know what had happened to me or even where to look for my body. I was in the deepest shit of my younng life, and I had no one to blame for my kidnapping and murder but my own stupid self.
These were days decades before cell phones. I was not armed and wearing a light shirt and a pair of shorts. All I could figure out to do was open the door and jump onto the sandy berm of the highway – a move that would surely result in severe injuries. Still, I considered, it was a better fate being a cripple than being a corpse on some deserted backroad. I sneakily slid my hand onto the door handle and grabbed it with a tight grip that would hopefully lead to my eventual escape.
In the meantime, this guy began to discuss his own issues, his sins and his salvation … and he claimed his commitment to God almighty. He had led a life full of troubles, and I was sure this confession was part of his prelim to violent behavior. God had no hand in this: I had met the devil.
Then, he undoubtedly noticed me trembling and sweating, so he turned on the juice. He kept asking if I died today, would I meet Jesus? I just knew that he planned to deliver me himself. I could see his evil grin and how he was getting off just scaring the fuck out of me.
You have no idea how far ten miles is when you are being primed for execution by a killer beside you who is calling the shots. Although we were speeding down Highway 90, it seemed as if I was able to size up the situation. I had no intention of letting this maniac turn off the main road with me in the front seat. Speed or not, I was going to hit the shoulder of the road before heading to no return.
At that point, I began to think about dying in this racist, unjust hellhole of a state. My opinion of the Great State of Mississippi had changed in a flash, not to mention my dream of spending the best summer of my life. In my mind, this was how good old boys dished out their vicious Southern hospitality.
My mind wandered and Iconsidered how so many blacks had suffered the same fate at the hands of hateful individuals like this crazy bastard. I was just another unwanted interloper in this nut's precious Southland. I felt as if he somehow knew I hated him and everything he stood for.
The man sounded like one of those shouting, hell-fire evangelists who believe they must put your earthly feet to the fire and singe your wicked skin. I had heard these preachers on TV caterwauling, whooping, sweating and that gun grew bigger every minute he worked himself into a murderous frenzy.
Imagination and fear mixed in a deeply emotional cocktail that thoroughly intoxicated all my senses. I began to fantasize that maybe I was destined to be here, in danger in his car, in some strange twist of fate. Maybe I was supposed to battle this evil force and somehow bring him to justice. Survival kicked in and my mind raced. Hell, I was too young to die. Hell, I wouldn't let this creep kill me.
I looked once more at the Bible and the gun as he rambled on and on. I wanted the fucker to shut up, but I knew better than to say so. By now, he was frothing and praising Jesus like a convert on execution day. I considered making his weapon my own, but I thought if I chose to grab the gun, he would beat my attempt … or perhaps he had another weapon even closer he could use. I decided that grabbing the pistol was suicide, so I solidified my plan to jump out the door – I put a death grip on that handle and made sure the door lock wasn't secured.
Nothing about all of this made sense to me. I kept watching him; he kept driving and raving; and people on the beach and in other cars on the road continued to lead their happy existence, totally unaware I was to become the prey of this Jim Jones-like mass murderer. I thought – how fittingly ironic for me, the young man from Ohio to be snuffed out of existence on such a beautiful day. Just my luck, dying in America and not in Vietnam.
Finally, as he saw my extreme discomfort (and as much petrified anger as I could muster) begin to overcome me, he started reaching toward the gun I began to yank the handle and jump, but his hand went toward the barrel, and not to the handle of the gun. Something made me pause for a split second as he picked up the weapon by its handle and tossed it carelessly into the back seat. I stayed in the car, frozen in relief. I was totally confused but I stayed seated.
To this day, I don't know if the gun was real or if it was a look-alike toy. It looked real enough to me, and in my 18-year-old mind I had somehow escaped certain death. Is it possible this man was playing some kind of sick game with me? Calling my bluff? Scaring me into salvation? I guess so.
Any of these conclusions is possible, but I will never know. He kept talking and took me all the way to the Biloxi mall. As the car slowed to a halt, I couldn't exit soon enough. I flew into the mall and had to sit down and recover for a good half hour.
Needless to say, that afternoon I spent in a daze. My perfect summer had come to a screeching halt, but at least the finale became an incident forever stuck in my mind and had not resulted in my body buried in a shallow grave and covered over by the hot sands of Mississippi.
And, I almost forgot – I had one more problem that afternoon: I had to get back to Phil's apartment.
You guessed it. I pressed my luck and hitchhiked back. So foolish. I guess bravado runs deep until in a young man until his luck finally runs out. I had no problem getting a ride home. In fact, some lovely folks picked me up, and we had a great conversation all the way back to the complex. I arrived even more relieved, but safe at home base.
Later, Phil came home. He asked me what I had been doing all day. I said “nothing” and “that” as “they say” was “that.” Big brothers always look out for you, and I could not stand to admit my foolish behavior then. I knew he would rip me and rightfully so. I was alive and well. After all, I was young and admittedly immature. A few days later the movers arrived. One last night sleeping on the floor in a bare apartment, and we headed for Ohio.
Years later, Phil and I were talking about something else that had happened in Gulfport, and I finally told him about my experience that day. I still received a lecture and a warning. He didn't have to issue that stern a warning though. I never hitchhiked again after that day. Never. If I needed to go somewhere and I didn't have transportation, I used my good old feet.
When I consider the lesson learned, I know how fortunate I was. Putting your life in someone else's hands is not a trivial matter. Doing it by hitchhiking and in a strange place is downright stupid. Of course, my list of stupid behaviors when I was young is long and revealing of an attitude much too carefree. There are plenty of other stories that defy common sense. Remember, neuroscientists say the frontal lobe doesn't fully mature until at least 25 and maybe even in the mid-30s. Think about your own past. See what the doctors are saying?
To finish this entry, I want to make one reflection on changing times. Why did the simple action of asking a stranger for a ride become taboo? During the Great Depression, hitchhiking (by necessity) was a common method of traveling. For God's sake, The Grapes of Wrath, by John Steinbeck, opens with a hitched ride. In 1957, Jack Kerouac immortalized hitchhiking in his book, On the Road. It was a part of the American psyche.
A man and woman hitchhiking near Vicksburg, Mississippi in 1936, photograph by Walker Evans
History records that a widespread fear of the unknown combined with the release of several films whose narrative involved hitchhiking-related crimes, “The once trustworthy and deserving hitchhiker was transformed into a potentially lethal criminal.” One such film was The Hitch-Hiker, the first noir movie to have a female director, premiering in 1953. (Do you relate? I wasn't afraid to wade deep into the ocean until I saw Jaws. And scientists still say there is nothing to fear. The movie ended my off-shore exploration.)
(Julian A. Compagni Portis. “Thumbs Down: America and the Decline of Hitchhiking.” Wesleyan University. 2015.)
As a result of an increasingly tarnished reputation, hitchhiking was banned in 23 states by 1950. Portis reports that in 25 more states, individual towns and cities passed local anti-hitchhiking ordinances.” Hitchhiking was on the ropes. The government was taking action against it, the media forever ruined its reputation, and the average motorist became less and less likely to pick up a traveler on the side of the road.
(“A History of Hitchhiking.” Mapping Kerouac – A Digital Humanities Project. Randolph-Macon College.)
Hitchhiking made a brief return with the counterculture of the 1960s. Yet, also starting in the 1960s and '70s, some of the first laws against hitching were passed, and local and federal law enforcement agencies began using scare tactics to get both drivers and hitchhikers to stop doing it. This 1973 FBI poster, for instance, warned drivers that a hitcher might be a "sex maniac" or a "vicious murderer.”
Josephy Stromberg of Vox writes that “other campaigns emphasized the risks to women – and implicitly suggested they'd be blamed for anything that happened to them.”
"Police officers at Rutgers University handed out cards to hitchhiking women that read, 'If I were a rapist, you’d be in trouble,'" Ginger Strand, author of Killer on the Road: Violence and the American Interstate, recounted in a recent New York Times op-ed.
(Joseph Stromberg. “The forgotten art of hitchhiking – and why it disappeared.” Vox. June 10, 2015.)
Hitchhiking pretty much died by the mid 1970’s, never to return.
Like the practices of keeping unlocked doors at home and allowing children to ride bikes alone, hitchhiking died because of lack of trust in others. A more general fear of strangers blossomed in American society. Stromberg reports: “Parents began instructing their children never to talk to strangers, for instance – but in reality, the overwhelming majority of child abductions are committed by family members.”
(Joseph Stromberg. “The forgotten art of hitchhiking – and why it disappeared.” Vox. June 10, 2015.)
Today, hitchhiking is legal in 44 of the 50 states, provided that the hitchhiker is not standing in the roadway or otherwise hindering the normal flow of traffic. Even in states where hitchhiking is illegal, hitchhikers are rarely ticketed. For example, the Wyoming Highway Patrol approached 524 hitchhikers in 2010, but only eight of them were cited (hitchhiking was subsequently legalized in Wyoming in 2013). Hitchhiking is still in regular practice, but hitchhikers must accept the risks.
My advice: Don't do it. Period. Don't even think about it. This is the reality as I know it in the 21st century. You could end up sitting by a nut with some kind of crazy purpose. As the old radio mystery show used to ask: “Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men?” It could be a savior, or it could be a killer – I don't know.
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