Going to the Good People
A few weeks before my grandfather Casey died, I visited him in the Alzheimer’s facility where he was housed. I hadn’t seen him in several months. My parents told me Casey wouldn’t recognize me, and that he only spoke gibberish now, if he spoke at all.
I found him sitting in a chair on a little patio outside his room. He lit up when he saw me and said, “Hey you.”
I said, “I’m Todd, your grandson.”
He said, “Is that so? How do you like that?”
I got another chair and sat beside him and after a bit of silent communion he said, “You know this is a very exclusive university. Very difficult to get in here.” Then he gave me a sly look. “But eventually everyone does.”
I told him a little bit about my life, and he told a long story that didn’t make any obvious sense to me, and then we sat in silence for a time.
When it was time for me to go, I took his hand and said, “I’m going now, Casey. I love you.”
He nodded thoughtfully and said, “Now listen. If you find yourself with the bad people, get away from them and go to the good people.”
Going Just A Little Way
When I was in college in Santa Cruz in the late 1960s, before mass murderers abounded and when there were almost no homeless people in America, if you can imagine such a world, I would hitchhike up the coast highway from Santa Cruz to San Gregorio, and then hitch over the coast range through La Honda and up to Skyline Boulevard and down into Woodside and home.
And I discovered that if I held a sign saying San Gregorio, I got rides much quicker than if I had no such sign.
When I dropped out of college and became a vagabond for a few years, I always presented to oncoming drivers a sign with the name of a town or city further along, and many of the drivers who did not stop for me would raise their hand and make the sign for “just a little way” – their index finger raised an inch or so above and parallel to their thumb.
And because much of the time I wasn’t going anywhere in particular, just looking for a place to make camp and get some work and food, it occurred to me that rather than have a sign with the name of a big town or city fifty or a hundred miles down the road, if I chose smaller towns only ten or twenty miles further along, my odds of getting a ride might improve; and this proved to be true.
“Who do you know in (name of town),” the drivers would invariably ask when they stopped for me.
And I’d say, “Well I don’t know anyone there, but I’ve heard it’s a lovely place with friendly people, and I’m on a relaxed schedule these days so I thought I’d go take a look at (name of town).”
Sometimes I’d be informed that (name of town) was a snake pit or dead as a door nail or no place for a hippy, but more often than not the driver would tell me the best place to get a bite to eat in (name of town), or invite me to camp in his or her backyard, or even give me work or put me in touch with someone who needed a laborer.
One fellow in Maine picked me up, and after a mile or so accused me of duping him with my sign. I explained this was how I was exploring the world and if he felt duped he could let me off at the next viable place to hitchhike from. He immediately relented, we chatted some more, and he ended up buying me lunch and hiring me to clear brush on his property for a few days. I could have stayed with him for weeks more, he had endless work for me, but he suffered from logorrhoea and I fled to preserve my sanity.
One afternoon in Vermont, an elderly couple driving an old pickup stopped for me, and the man – he was riding shotgun – rolled down his window and said, “We are the only people who live in that town. Why do you want to go there?”
“To see the covered bridge,” I said, having a road map indicating such things.
He gave me a long look and said, “That bridge was torn down five years ago.”
“I need a newer map,” I said. I then explained my hitchhiking strategy and they listened as if I were revealing the meaning of life, after which the woman said, “If you don’t mind riding in back we’ll give you supper and you can camp in our meadow.”
Which I did.
*
Really Really You from Todd’s album Through the Fire
I’ve always liked lizards, feel lucky when I see one
I like pelicans, too. In fact, I’d like to be one.
I like hummingbirds, and I like chickadees, too
I like walking on the beach
And I really really like you
I like hanging out with little kids,
they hunger for the truth
I like spending time with teenagers,
they take me back to my youth
Yeah, they take me back to when I was seventeen
My life stretched out before me, no end to be seen
I love women, I do. I like men
I’m pretty much a Taoist, with a little touch of zen
I like your sister, she’s cool, and I like your brother, too
And I really really really really
really really really like you
I’ve always liked lizards, feel lucky when I see one
I like pelicans, too. In fact, I’d like to be one.
I like koala bears, and I like kangaroos
I like walking in the woods
And I really really like you
I love women, I do. I like men
I’m pretty much a Taoist, with a splash of cayenne
I like your sister, she’s jazz, and I like your brother, too
And I really really like you
I really really like you
fin
