A Hitchhiker

When I was in grad school in the mid sixties, I traveled between home in Massachusetts and school in North Carolina by car, a Rambler American. My parents had a friend, a former neighbor, who lived in Maryland just over the border from D.C., and she let me stay overnight when I was going to or fro.

In that era hitchhiking was common. People would stand at the side of the highway with handmade signs indicating their destination. It's probably as safe as it ever was, but it seems people are more afraid of picking up or being picked up by a violent person, with the result that hitchhiking is less common that it was fifty years ago.

It could have been in the fall of 1964, but I think it was 1965, as I was driving north, possibly for the last time — having completed my course work and thesis research — near the North Carolina-Virginia border. I saw a young man in the uniform of a military academy with a sign that said, "Richmond." I thought it would be good for a Yankee to show good will toward a southerner. That, the fact that his destination was on my way, and possibly further thoughts or unconscious motives were enough to strengthen my impulse to give him a ride.

I don't recall any of our conversation until we approached Richmond. He told me which exit was his and indicated he'd have no trouble getting a ride from there: his home wasn't far from the interstate. In that case, I could take him the rest of the way. I did so. He kindly invited me to come in for some refreshment, but I explained that I was expected in Bethesda and declined the invitation with gratitude. On my part there was also some degree of desire which I thought it prudent not to indulge.

In a way, I suppose I've always wished I'd accepted the invitation, and wondered what would have happened if I had. Would his parents have been grateful? Would he and I have become friends? I also wonder what happened to him. Did he go to Viet Nam? If so, did he return? I hope he had and is having a good life and even sometimes remembers the guy from Massachusetts who took him to his front door.

Nostalgia Revisited

Today, I went to a meeting in a town less than an hour's drive from my home. It's a town I basically never thought about in the first two and a half decades of my life.

When I went to the monastery, about 45 years ago, one of my fellow pre-monks mentioned one of the college students, "Gerry," (soft "g") whom he characterized as a "happy-go-lucky kid," and I became slightly acquainted with him. I specifically recall being in a pick-up basketball game in which he was a participant. There must have been occasional other interactions, but I can't remember any specifically. Suffice it to say he knew who I was, and I knew who he was — not much more than that.

But I developed a real crush on him. I learned that he came from the town I hadn't ever thought about, and instantly I was  fascinated with it. After leaving the monastery, I occasionally found it near my route from one place to another, and I'd take the slight detour to actually drive through it. I had learned Gerry's home address from the college yearbook, and I found the street on a map, and a couple of times on my detours through the town, I actually drove down his street, past his boyhood home. By then, of course, he had graduated from college and was living somewhere else, but I still wanted to see the place. It was a fairly typical modest post WWII "cape" style house in a development of similar houses.

I don't think of him often, but when I have an occasion to visit that town, I usually remember him and drive past his street, as I did today.

After I left the monastery, I don't think I had any further contact with him, but there is still a nostalgia for him, for a friendship which I would have liked to have, but which never had a chance to develop. From the little bit I saw about him in alumni publications, I know he had a career not far from here, and there was never an indication that he had married or had children. I'd like to see him again, but I'd no more tell him of the crush I had than I would have 45 years ago. I hope we'll meet in heaven, where secrets will not be necessary.

The moral(s) of the story. You don't forget people toward whom you had a strong attraction. Even if the memories fade, they can be triggered and feelings can re-emerge.

Don't be too shy about trying to give relationships a chance to develop. As you know, I don't advocate sexual activity between people of the same sex, but I definitely do advocate friendship. Of course, you can't force someone to be your friend, but if you'd like it, you shouldn't let shyness, or fear of rejection, inhibit you. Take advantage of chances to be with people you like. Even create chances if you can. It's possible to be too pushy about it, of course; but my mistake was frequently being too cautious (except with Mike).

It's All about Love

Background. When I was growing up in the 1940's and 50's, the emphasis in the Catholic Church seemed to be on obeying the commandments and avoiding sin. Then in the early 60's there was the second Vatican Council, which shifted the emphasis to being enlivened by God as part of his people and being actively engaged in the world.

After I finished my grad school course work and thesis research, I went to a monastery with the hope of becoming a monk. They ran a college, and while I was "discerning" about them and they were "discerning" about me, they had me audit some of the college classes — which were quite good, BTW.

One of the courses was on sacraments, and it was taught by Father "Christopher," one of the monks. He was 57 years old and had had a heart attack and it was expected that sooner or later he would have another, which would be fatal. In addition to teaching, he was the monastery's liturgist, the man responsible for seeing to it that all the services were properly performed according to the rules and basic principles. I admired him a lot.

One day in class, he paused in the midst of his lecture and said, "You join the monastery thinking that if you follow the rules and obey your superiors everything will be fine. Then as you come to the end you learn that it's all about love and you find yourself wondering if you've made the grade."

Postscript. We wannabe monks would go early every morning to be altar servers for the monks' private Masses in the "crypt" of the monastery. On the morning of February 13, 1967, Brother "William" came to me and asked "Would you mind serving Father Christopher's Mass?" Mind? I'd be thrilled! So I said, "Okay." Father Christopher had an unusual habit. When he was saying the Our Father in the Mass, he didn't want the server to say "Sed libera nos a malo" (But deliver us from evil) after he said "Et ne nos inducas in tentationem" (And lead us not into temptation). So he'd whisper the entire Our Father. But that morning, I managed to catch his whisper and I chimed in with "sed libera nos a malo," and felt very pleased.

Later that morning one of the monks found him in the corridor of the monastery with his books and papers for class, lying face down, dead.