Hitchhiker

Last week I went to the bank so I could fill my truck. It now takes a revolving line of credit to keep the tires turning. My truck gets better mileage than an Abrams tank, but it is not what you could call fuel-efficient. So I have started to consider other options.

Instead of commuting to work every day I could sleep at the office and visit my wife and kids on the weekend. I could pedal my bike everywhere (seasonally modified with a rear snow tire and a ski on the front). I could replace my truck with a small, cool car, or maybe I’ll just hitchhike.

My cousin Kevin and I were attending St. Cloud State University about thirty years ago. Our aunt, Shaun, a nun and professor at St. Benedict’s College, invited us over for church and then lunch one Sunday. It was a conditional invitation – if we expected to eat, she expected us to go church. Since neither one of us had a car, or knew anyone who would let us borrow theirs, we chose to hitchhike.

Church was early (for two college boys) – maybe 8 o-clock, so we began our adventure about 7. We didn’t have that far to go, but we were picked up by three drivers.

The first one was driving a rusty four-door sedan. He told us to get in front with him as the backseat was full. Not only was he kind of enough to pick us up, he also offered us a beer (there were several cases sitting on the backseat and he had already broke into one about three beers ago). Considering our destination, we declined his polite offer. Sensing that we were not going to be the drinking buddies he had hoped for, he soon let us out.

Within minutes another four-door sedan stopped. It was driven by a man dressed in his Sunday best. Kevin got in the front and I hopped in the back and found bibles instead of beer.

“You boys been to see the Lord this morning?” he asked us. When we explained the purpose of our trip he quickly dropped us off too. I guess he was on a mission and figured since we were headed in the right direction he would look for other wayward travelers.

The third and final driver pulled up in a brownish, greenish van. There were only two seats: One for the driver and one for me. Kevin got to share the mattress in the back with a dog. The dog was quiet and well groomed. The man wasn’t. The dog regarded us with a disinterested glance while his driver rambled on and offered us a “hit of the doobie,” he was enjoying. We turned him down too. Within a few minutes we were dropped off in front of the church.

I’m sure the church service was lovely with a meaningful message, but all I could think about was how we got there and lunch (which still seemed a long way off). Shaun lived with several nuns, one of which was an Italian from New Jersey; the day seemed to be filled with stereotypes. Sister Ralph-Mary prepared a fabulous spaghetti meal – complete with all the garlic bread you could eat. I ate so much I got sick.

Shaun and I have had many lunches together since then. I’m still surprised you can get a glass of wine with lunch at Emma Krumbee’s. She would drive down (apparently nuns don’t hitchhike) from St. Joseph when she would visit my mother (her sister). Often there would be others with us when we would visit Mom, but one time it was just the two of us, or as Shaun put it, “It looks like it’s just thee and me.”

Mom’s now gone and Shaun is a little older and does not make the trip south as often any more. So I make the trip up north. I can make the round-trip on less than a tank, but I would do it even if it was more because the way I see it – it’s pay back time.