This one's just ridiculous. Perhaps I should write newspaper commentaries for a living. It obviously doesn't require any brains.
[b:694526c86f][size=18:694526c86f]Lost art of hitchhiking is best left lost[/size:694526c86f] [/b:694526c86f]
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By SCOTT BURNSIDE sburnside@kentuckynewera.com
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My Serve
It pays to advertise, especially in the disappearing world of hitchhiking.
This tidbit of unusable news was learned by servicemen hitchhiking in the 1960s, a friendly decade for thumbing a ride.
Nowadays, it's difficult to find a hitchhiker anywhere, and since there's so few of them plying their skills on the roadways, they really stand out.
The advertisement part comes through when you're standing by the side of the road, trying to sell yourself as a friendly, non-violent human being, a person with whom it would be entertaining to share a ride for a few miles (don't smile -- they'll wonder what you've been smoking).
I learned this skill while stationed in the wilds of Maine during the Vietnam days of the 1960s. It was relatively easy to get a ride, or at least from the origin of my travels, the military-friendly neighboring towns of Topsham and Brunswick, home to an U.S. Air Force station and a Naval air base.
It wasn't difficult to identify who was a serviceman in those days. If he had short hair and was wearing black brogan shoes, your bet was that he was in the military.
Today, short hair might identify a member of a neo-Nazi, fake-commando group, or better (worse) yet a skinhead.
The trick back then was to stand by the edge of the road (not too close), just a half block from an intersection, so the cars would be moving slow and not trying to roar through said intersection. A pleasant look would be appropriate and you didn't want to look too shabby.
Now, years (even decades) after those hitchhiker-friendly days have passed, and not to mention the scads of evil-hitchhiker movies¸ a hitchhiker seemingly has a tougher time.
In my Maine days, it was a tough situation coming back in the middle of the night from wherever we had been, whether it was Lewiston, Portland or Bath. You were almost out of military-friendly territory. It was night and sometimes your rides let you out in the middle of the interstate. If the police found you, they took you off the well-lighted parkway onto the dark, lonely two-lane rural roads.
One night I was picked up by a friendly drunk, whose legal capacity for drink had been passed several hours earlier.
On another occasion, while thumbing from St. Louis to eastern Illinois, a would-be pervert picked me up.
"I'll take you to my house for a second, and then I'll drive you to Illinois," he said with a leer, wiping the spittle from his chin.
"No, let me out here," I shouted.
He did, and although my next ride escorted me three hours to my home on the other side of the state, I never again hitchhiked.
Once I picked up a female hitchhiker coming out of Colorado. She informed she spent the night before in jail and was going "East, somewhere." We stopped at a rest stop in Kansas and she disappeared into a Volkswagen van of hippies.
It's thankfully a lost art and one that I never taught my daughters.
Scott Burnside is a staff writer and columnist for the Kentucky New Era. He can be contacted by phone at 887-3226 or by e-mail at sburnside@kentuckynewera.com.
