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.

Regrets — cont'd.

My previous post gave the story. Now for my current thoughts about it.


There can easily be unforeseen consequences for our actions. Sometimes they are not a problem, but sometimes they can be so unwanted that we would have done things differently if we had known how things would turn out.

Was my uncles death the result (indirectly) of my speaking to him as I did? There's no way of being sure, but it seems very possible. And I'm sure that I would not have spoken as I did if I had any idea that he would die in a few days.

When there are unforeseen and unwanted consequences to our actions, it seems to me that we shouldn't blame ourselves for what happened. Of course, we are saddened that things turned out the way they did, but that doesn't mean that we should consider ourselves at fault.

But I don't think we can consider ourselves completely off the hook just because we would have done things differently if we had known what was going to happen. Even if we aren't to blame for what happened, there may be a lesson in it for us.

As I look back on myself that evening in early 1982, it seems to me that I wasn't loving enough toward my uncle, who had tried to be good to me. I made the mistake of seeing him as an intruder into my mother's life, creating in my mind some kind of opposition between them. (A Freudian might think that I also saw him unconsciously as a rival.) Because of that, I intervened in a situation where perhaps I shouldn't have, thinking that my mother would just let herself be subordinated to him. Of course, if it was knowably a matter of keeping him alive, I'm sure she would have wanted to postpone her visit to Japan. So the lessons for me are to try to care more about others, not being too narrowly focused on myself and one or two others, and not to butt into other people's situations when it isn't needed.

All of this review has enabled me to see myself as less of a villain than I had previously thought, but I still think that if I had been a better person, I might have done better.

At the funeral, the priest — a third cousin who was also a good friend of his — said "I think that when death came to him, it came as a friend," because of his declining health which had taken away his ability to ski and play golf and perform other activities he had enjoyed and even to perform various household tasks, like opening jars.

So my conclusion is we shouldn't blame ourselves for unwanted consequences of our words or actions. If we can say, "I'd have done it differently if I had known what would happen," then it's not our fault. But if there is a lesson for how to do better in the future, if there was an honest mistake, we can try to remember that lesson and try not to make that mistake again.

Regrets: I've Had a Few …

… and here is one I'm going to mention.

While Zack was here, as I mentioned, we spoke of regrets. He told of regretting that he had not been present in the period leading up to his friend's death. That reminded me of the following, which I told him, and which I think may have some lessons for all of us.


My mother had two brothers. The older of the two died in the early 1960's. The second, born about 1908, died in 1982, after five eventful years in Mom's life.

• 1977 — My kid brother got engaged. A couple of months later Dad died.
• 1978 — My brother's wedding in Tokyo  — Mom, my other brother, and I were there.
• 1979 — Mom's mother died (in her 90's).
• 1981 — November: My nephew was born in Tokyo — Mom's first grandchild (and it turns out, her only one).

Of course, Mom was thrilled and made arrangements to travel to Japan in March to see the baby.

Early in the winter, my uncle, her brother had a stroke, the latest of several health problems. He had been living in the house which had been his mother's and his home since about 1917. After his release from the hospital he came to stay with us for his convalescence.

As his visit continued for several weeks, with little visible change in his condition, I began to fear that he would still be with us in March, and my mother would have to cancel her plans to see her new grandson. So one evening, when she was out of earshot, I said to him that I hoped he would be able to take care of himself by March, since I would not be around on weekdays to help him, and it would be too bad if Mom couldn't go to Japan, since it meant so much to her. (At that time, I knew nothing about home health aides and visiting nurses.)

Soon after that, my uncle announced that he would go back to his house as an experiment to see how he could do on his own. A day or two later, my mother couldn't reach him by phone and went to check up on him. She called me and told me that she had found him dead.

For the past 30 years, I have blamed myself for his death. If I hadn't effectively sent him away, perhaps he would have been able to recuperate, whereas being on his own was too much, too soon. I've also blamed myself for being too uncaring toward him, and I've wondered how hurt he felt at my attitude toward him.

This post is getting long, and I still need to tell you what I think about it all, as I look back. So I'll pick up in the following post.