Page 13 - Book Eleven Havelock

FISH and CROCK Written January 4 2010 Page 11
Like the ol􏰀 gra􏰁 mare􏰂 hitch-hiking ain􏰀t 􏰃hat it 􏰄sed to be􏰅
Hitch-hiking was not only a very cheap mode of travel when I lived in Havelock, but it was also quite dependable. When I was about I2, I learned that I could get about anywhere I wanted to go just by standing beside the road and sticking my thumb out. Lots of guys did it.
Se􏰆eral of m􏰁 earliest 􏰇th􏰄mbing􏰈 rides 􏰃ere to and from Trent Ri􏰆er to s􏰃im or go fishing􏰅 On one occasion I remember 4 or 5 of us were heading back to Havelock with all our fishing equipment 􏰉 very primitive poles with hooks tied to the end of the fishing line and possibly a float and sinker if we had them. We were also carrying our catch-of-the-day, about two small bass and maybe 15 sunfish which are so bony that a real fisherman would throw them back. But I never said we were real fishermen. We were hitch-hikers. Allan 􏰃as there b􏰄t I can􏰀t remember 􏰃ho the others 􏰃ere􏰅 What I do remember is that the elderl􏰁 Rev. Mr. Kemp, retired minister of our local United Church kindly stopped to pick up this dirty group of urchins and offer us a ride home. When he saw what we were carrying he undoubtedly regretted his act of mercy. But it was too late. We all hurried up to his car to redeem this good stroke of fortune. Problem. We looked at our fishing poles then at each other questioningly. It was Allan who spoke up. He always took charge in delicate situations.
􏰇Where shall 􏰃e p􏰄t o􏰄r poles􏰂 Mr􏰅 Kemp􏰊􏰈 Mr􏰅 Kemp replied􏰂 􏰇That􏰀s 􏰁o􏰄r problem􏰅􏰈 That􏰀s the punch line of that stor􏰁 beca􏰄se I can􏰀t remember ho􏰃 􏰃e sol􏰆ed the problem. I do remember that cars had running boards in those days, and that 4 or 5 smell􏰁 bo􏰁s piled into Mr􏰅Kemp􏰀s nice clean new Graham- Paige car. Along with a whole lot of even smellier fish.
As I got older my hitch-hiking opened wider horizons. At about age 16 I found out I could wear my Air Cadet uniform and pose as an airman on leave (undoubtedly illegal but nobody ever pointed that out to me). I once thumbed both ways across southern Ontario between Havelock and Harrow, near Detroit, about 250 miles apart. On that trip I carried a heavy gallon of molasses the whole way home. I reluctantly accepted this gift from the Hernandez family who had fed and housed me in my Harrow visit. They grew their own sugar cane and made molasses out of it. How can anyone turn down a gallon of free molasses in a crock? The crock was not unlike the ones you see in pictures of guzzling mountaineers. So I set out burdened by this big old jug. As I hitch-hiked the j􏰄g􏰀s obvious presence may have cost me a few pick-ups but it also may have enticed some curious others to stop and give me a ride.
One memory on that hitch-hiking journey stands out. It was about 2 am I believe b􏰄t I didn􏰀t o􏰃n a
􏰃atch so I􏰀m not s􏰄re􏰅 Darkness makes it harder for drivers to see hitch-hikers and sometimes it was a
long time between rides so I decided to get some sleep and continue my soliciting after daylight. I tried
to sleep on the ground a short distance from the highway with my crock but every time I almost dozed
off a truck would roar by. Then I would be startled back wide awake again. I finally gave up my efforts
and walked a mile or two to an all-night diner at the top of that hill going east out of Tillsonburg on old Highway #3. Inside there was a scattering of all-night travelers and others. One of the others was a little guy who was carrying on a non-stop conversation with himself in gibberish - entirely harmless and rather entertaining to the mix of people drinking coffee or just hanging out.
Suddenly out of the night, like the entrance of that villain in the epic Dan McGrew tale, a belligerent stranger stormed in. He obviously had been imbibing something that I DIDN􏰀T ha􏰆e in m􏰁 crock􏰅 He threatened the 􏰃aiter who nervously called the police. This obnoxious guy continued his harassment as everybody in the diner turned their attention from the innocuous little mumbler to this gathering storm of trouble. Within minutes two night policemen showed up in their patrol car. Everybody watched in speechless amazement as the two big officers of the law strode right past the trouble-maker and grabbed the poor little derelict and hustled him out the door and into the patrol car. After a few moments of stunned silence in the diner, the real culprit wisely disappeared into the night. And within a few more seconds I thought it wise for me to exit too. I think we both had the same motivation, to make ourselves few and far between before the law became cognizant of their error and returned to apprehend either the real offender or that other stranger with the big crock of whiskey.
Both the crock and I arrived home in about 48 hours. I was exhausted but ready to plan my next trip after a day or two recovering. The jug of molasses sat around our house for about 2 years. I guess nobody could think up any use for molasses.