Hitchhiker's Guide to the Valley (in 1969)
Stories from fellow Substackians and Mother's Day lessons
1969 was a busy year. The moon landing, Stonewall riots1 and the Scooby Doo premiere on TV. For me and my two older sisters it was the first time we asked for something extraordinary, and mom delivered. She created a memory that helped shape who I am.
We were 5, 7 and 9 years old. It could have been any time of year when this incident happened since it was Los Angeles, the San Fernando Valley to be specific, where there was one season-- hot. Most of my memory of childhood is the boredom of scalding days that followed each other predictably and stuck to me like the random tar in the sand on Santa Monica beach.
Mom drove a ‘68 Mustang that stalled every morning. If the car started up on the weekend, she would take us on errands— the grocery store, Mort’s Deli (still in the same location in Tarzana) and we’d head back home to Woodland Hills which was a prairie back then.
Vicki always sat in the front seat because she was the oldest which meant she had “privileges.” She sometimes drank soda with dinner whereas Debbie and I had milk (an under appreciated freshly bottled beverage, delivered to our front door every week). I never understood this style of parenting. The birth order wasn’t my choice.
The presence of a hitchhiker was inevitable at the White Oak Avenue entrance to the 101 Freeway. The first time we witnessed one we asked what that person was doing and why were they holding out their thumb.
Mom explained the notion of the hitchhiker. “Danger” wasn’t part of her explanation. Back then it was a mode of transportation, a free Uber, a good deed for the driver, helping someone who needed a ride. There was never a second thought for the hitchhiker or the driver. It was safe. To me, they weren’t “strangers,” they were just “a new person,” who might climb into our car, our private space where my sisters and I made up games or fought over the last Milk Dud. The hitchhiker was a novelty, magical like the tooth fairy. I once unlocked the front door in the middle of the night so the tooth fairy could enter our home and leave me a nickel under my pillow.
The next time we saw a hitchhiker, mom sped by him and my sisters and I shouted excitedly, “Pick him up! Pick him up! Please??”
But we didn’t understand that you couldn’t slam on the breaks and back up on a freeway entrance.
“Next time,” my mom said.
This satisfied us girls, but we were still disappointed that we didn’t get to help a new person. And at 5 years old, anyone could have been a tooth fairy, even a hitchhiker.
The following week we went to Mort’s Deli and reminded mom, “If we see a hitchhiker, can we pick him up?”
“Did I say that?”
“Yes! You said!”
My mom nodded and we helped her carry out the bags of corned beef, rye bread and Dr. Brown’s sodas, a weekend treat for the three of us girls.
We waited in the left lane for the light to turn green. A brown man with a combed out afro held out his thumb at the freeway entrance.
“Hitchiker!” We shouted.
My mom made the left turn and stopped for him. My sisters and I peered out the back window and watched the man scoop up his guitar and bolt towards us. His tight colorful, paisley shirt was buttoned down low. The orange in the pattern matched his bell bottoms. His oxblood leather jacket was so cool it must have cooled him down on this sizzling San Fernando Valley day.
Vicki climbed into the back seat so the hitchhiker could sit up front.
“Thanks for the lift,” he said. He peered back at us and winked. The hitchhiker’s afro looked like a halo, the embedded comb God’s fingers. For the first time all day we were silent, eager to absorb this experience. As a Jewish 5 year old I hadn’t yet heard of Jesus Christ but if I did, this hitchhiker could have been Him. His demeanor was humble, calming.
“We’re getting off at Valley Circle. Is that okay?”
“Groovy,” he said.
The experience was magical not only because we helped a new person but this man looked similar to the kind brown man, Gordon, on my favorite TV show, Sesame Street. The kids at my school were all beige like me. I had never met a Gordon in person. My sisters and I were thrilled, intrigued. We squirmed with excitement in the narrow back seat. And mom’s car didn’t stall.
“You a musician?” Mom said.
“I play gigs around town. You play?”
“I have a guitar signed by Barry White2.”
“What? Outta sight.”
“I sing too. But, busy with the kids.”
“I can dig it.”
Valley Circle was just a few miles down the freeway and in 1969 there was no traffic. Ever.
Before he stepped out of the car, hitchhiker Jesus looked back at our three little faces probably smeared with Milk Duds and held out his hand. “Gimme some skin.” We did-- a 1969 version of a low five.
We dropped off hitchhiker Jesus and that was it. Never to see him again. I decided he wasn’t the tooth fairy, but he was definitely “groovy.” He could have been Jimmy Hendrix for all we knew, or maybe a dad of five, a favorite teacher or a helpful neighbor.
With this one experience mom taught us two lessons— 1. Help others when possible. It’s a worthwhile adventure for all involved, and 2. There’s always a connection.
Without realizing its effect on me, this effortless indulgence told me everything I needed to know about life and my mom.
The same sun that came out to play was different that day.
My sister’s and I spent the rest of the afternoon saying, “Gimme some skin,” and giggling our hearts out.
Thanks, Mom.
Honoring Other Moms
I asked fellow Substackers on Notes for a funny or kind story about their mom. I’m honored to share them here:
My mom’s name is Vicki, and she is the toughest and most loving lady I know. She has known a LOT of struggles in her 77 years, but you’d never know it if you sat down and had tea with her.
Evelyn was born and raised in Brooklyn, and I once corrected her Brooklyn accent in a crowded public place: “Mom, it’s chocolate, not chawklit.” In a perfect Ashkenaz Eastern European accent, and at the top of her voice, she shouted, “Vut’s de metter, you’re ashamed of de vay your mudder talks?” I never corrected her again.
My mother, Linda, was good humor personified. She loved to laugh, especially at herself. Nobody laughed more than she on the day she ate a fancy dog biscuit, thinking it was a cookie from the bakery. “I can’t believe they charged $3 for this—it’s terrible.”
My mom, Bernice, had an amazing constitution. After a quadruple bypass at 48 she lived to 70. On a bottle of vodka and four packs a day. She died while taking chocolate chip cookies out of the oven. True story.
Marguerita, which is not my mother’s name, but the one she always wished it to be, tries her best to do what she believes is in the best interests of her family.
My mom’s name was Barbara. She was a waitress in a truck stop and all the customers, everyone really, loved her crooked smile.
Dana (pronounced “Donna”) used to follow me in her car when I was a teen when I would go for neighborhood jogs and runs. She was worried someone would kidnap me. Anyway, one time someone reported her.
Oh crap. Mother’s Day is coming up.
About me, from my kid, Samantha (and I could feel son-of-few-words Dylan, nodding, on the group text)
The Bill Clinton thing I’ll always remember. It was silent in a sushi restaurant, and you took the placemat—the bamboo thing—and did the “I am not here.” (I was mimicking Comic Frank Caliendo’s impression of Bill Clinton using the bamboo rolling mat like a window shade over my face. I took the placemat home so we could take turns replicating the joke.)
Happy Mama’s Day!
If you don’t have a funny, fun or kind story about your mom, share one about you, your wifey, someone who is/was like a mom…
Police raided a gay bar called the Stonewall Inn in Greenwich Village. A series of protests erupted paving the way for equal rights among the LGBTQ+ community.
Barry White— Known for his baritone voice, “the American singer-songwriter had many hits in the 1970s, and recorded some of the most enduring songs of the soul, funk and disco era.”
I’ve never had the opportunity to pick up a hitchhiker and this piece filled me with a bit of nostalgia for an era I wasn’t in.
We’re more connected digitally than ever while simultaneously being less connected in an in-person, physical sense. Sometimes it’s the little things. Great piece for Mother’s Day!
Just when we thought 1969 was crowded with more history events than any one year could handle, history requires us to add Woodstock to the calendar of that amazing year! You never forget your first hitchhiker. Unfortunately mine sat in back seat of my 4 door Chevy Caprice and said" I'm sorry man, but I'm going to have to hit you up for some change" I still remember the relief I had pulling over and letting him out.