Day Nineteen (Thursday, July 15, 1971)

Harry and Mary provided eggs and bacon for breakfast the next morning, still joking about their auto mishap.

“I should have known better when that tow truck driver said free pickup.”

“Well Mary, you asked for curb service, and you got it.”

“I told him that knockers were for doors, and to leave mine alone.”

A greeting card salesman picked us up outside Morro Bay. That was our first “official” ride of the day. The highway curved inland, up and around small dry hills whose California landscape was becoming familiar: lush green trees atop yellow undergrowth. We hopped on another one of those ubiquitous freeways to a town with another Spanish name: Paso Robles. It was clean and sprouting, development bursting at its seams. Electric wires were buried; houses and storefronts flared with massive skylights to capture natural light.

Otto and I hiked to the edge of town. Paso Robles dropped off fast into flat, dry, empty land. Cars peeled down a long, hot dragstrip.

“No sense getting mad at them.”

“Hey Roger, ever think about hitchin’ a ride with a plane?” Otto watched the movements of an airport across the street. “I’d do it. Pilots get lonely like anybody else.”

Another strategy worked instantly—hauling in a car after it passed. A pale green Nova screamed by with two lookers inside. Before the engine faded I was stomping the pavement, Otto, too, waving and shouting, “Hey, come on back! Stop! Halt!” like a couple of grease monkeys whose racers forgot a pit stop.

The Nova screeched to a stop.

Sandy and Trish were their names; flirting with guys from Jersey was their game. Both ladies wore wedding bands on their left ring fingers. In addition, Sandy, the driver, had a kid strapped in a special seat between them. They were astounded to hear what we were up to, especially since Sandy’s husband warned her never to pick up hitchhikers.

“Why don’t you pick out a tape?” she said, handing me a case of eight-tracks.

The four of us had a good discussion over the sounds of Pearl by Janis Joplin.

“Were you guys at Woodstock? I’d die if you were.” Trish leaned back with a big smile. “That’s around where you live, isn’t it?”

“Sort of,” I said, aware that peoples’ perception of distance was different out here. “I wanted to go, but my old man would’ve disowned me.”

“I know people who went,” Otto said. “There was no direct way to hitchhike,” I said.

I liked Trish. She was about my height, with a slim figure, jet black hair worn in a shag, small chin, pug nose, a charming smile, and eyes that sparkled. For being married she sure had a lot of life left in her. We laughed about our shared interests: the same astrological sign (Aquarius), favorite color (green), favorite kids’ toy (Slinky), and even our favorite number (4). Also, we were both lefthanded.

The four of us sped across an endless flatland where the horizon stood on the same level as ourselves. Sandy explained, “We’re in the San Joaquin Valley.” The wiggly lines on my map turned straight and the counties were backlit in while—telltale signs of flatness. Outside, the chalky white close to the ground was heat radiation. It sizzled from below. Trees bordered off farms. Water became scarce. Air-conditioning became a necessity.

“Press your hand against the window and feel it,” Trish said. The glass was hot and baking.

Lemoore, California. Another expanding farm town, adjusting to the pangs of suburbanization. Sandy pulled into a 76 Union gas station. Bye, ladies. How many times had that already happened? I could’ve stepped into Trish’s life so easily. I could’ve taken up the reigns with her and stayed with her indefinitely, maybe forever, could have moved her emotionally and biologically and spiritually. That’s the hitchhiker’s mantra. Going, going, gone. The connections which are often solid get severed so fast.

I walked into a phone booth with a dime and 209 area code. Aunt Betty was my father’s older sister.
My parents always nicknamed her ‘The Queen’ for acting superior (allegedly) toward the rest of the family. They scorned her promiscuousness between husbands. She smoked and drank in public. Her language was “too coarse for a woman.” Her attitude was cavalier. They resented how she pulled stakes from New Jersey in the 1950’s and left for California. And they were really mad because she was happy and successful and never looked back.

She answered the phone, “Could this be my handsome young nephew who sent me that nice postcard the other day?” and exclaimed, “My word—all the way across country! That takes courage and resourcefulness. I hope you’re proud of yourself.” She came right down.

A boat-like, copper-colored 1964 Plymouth Fury III maneuvered through the parking lot. Aunt Betty waved from behind the wheel and got out. “My my, you’re all grown up.” At a moment like this you’d expect one of those superficial kiss scenes. To my approval, she commenced with nothing more than a hardy handshake.

“The last time I saw you was four years ago, 1967, when I brought Ralph back East to meet the family. Remember? I had just gotten remarried. I cooked a leg of lamb dinner for everyone at your grandmother’s house. You came over all hot and sweaty from baseball and your father bawled you out.”

“Aunt Betty, this is my friend, Otto George.”

“Well hello there,” she said with sincerity. When Otto saw the extended arm, he shuffled in, shook hands, and then backed off again, like Muhammad Ali being introduced to Joe Frazier ringside.

It was only my third or fourth visit with Betty, but that was enough to form a picture. Her wrinkled face was handsome—a woman enjoying her late fifties. Her legs were like an ostrich’s and her back was straight as a plank. She brushed her short, salt and pepper hair straight back. Her azure eyes contained glimpses of both my grandparents. She was exuberant and penetrating. When she talked, her jaw squared off. She looked like—ready?—President Nixon.

“Hope you don’t mind if I talk your ass off,” she laughed as we got going. “One thing you’ll discover about me is I love to shoot the shit. I drive your Mom and Dad crazy.”

“Fine with me.”

“And don’t expect to be treated like children. You came 3,000 miles out here on your wits. That’s more than most people do in a lifetime. So I won’t even think about your age. To me, you’re adults.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Do you like our dry heat? In the summer there’s not much variation. It’ll be about eighty-five when you get up, creep up to a hundred during the day, and then go back down at night . . . Of course, we haven’t had any rain since April and won’t see any again until October . . . That damn humidity, that’s what I couldn’t stand about summers in Jersey. You want to run around naked . . . This dry heat is much easier to take. Look at me. I can wear a pants suit in the evening and get away with it!”

Betty’s ability to string together multiple sentences without stammering made her unusual for a Winans. She chain-smoked Parliaments and said, “I like my Johnny Walker red or black, however he’ll give it to me.” She knew things most Winans’ didn’t, like species of flowers, plants, and trees. She scored points with me for talking about history and geography.

“The Chinese take up ten percent of our 15,000 population. Our Taoist Temple in China Alley is unique to Hanford.”

I kept waiting for a remark about our hair or beards, or the condition of our clothes, but . . . naught. Betty rattled off comparisons and contrasts between Lemoore and Hanford as I dropped my hand in front of the air ducts and let the cool stream blow on my hardened skin. A few— cirrus?—clouds hung in the upper atmosphere.

“Here I can show you some of our crops.” She pointed out acres of pear-apples, pistachios, grapes, and cotton. “Anything you can think of is grown here in the San Joaquin Valley. Lettuce, corn, string beans, tomatoes—we have lovely tomatoes—wheat, peppers. You name it, we’ve got it. Kings County and the next one over, Fresno County, are the leaders in the United States in farm production. You probably eat many of our local vegetables back at home in New Jersey.”

“Not bad.”

“These are just tiny-ass farms, the ones between the towns. North toward Fresno is where you see your large, thousand-acre farms, where the serious farming goes on. See, here they are now, irrigating.”

“Hmmm. Neat.”

“You couldn’t farm this land if they didn’t irrigate. They dig wells as deep as five hundred feet, and they’ve got to dig deeper all the time, because the water table keeps going down. Can you imagine going through all that for just water? They do it.”

“Hmmm. Interesting.”

The farmers were still riding atop their tractors as we entered Hanford. The sun was an inch higher than the horizon, blazing orange. Lazy shade trees protected the residential district. Like everywhere else in California, houses kept elbowing their way onto farmland.

Betty’s neighborhood was compact yet private because everyone had a fence. I recognized her street address, 1602 North Douty, as we parked in front of a small, one-story ranch, white clapboard with green shutters and a bay window.

“Here’s the shanty. This is an old-fashioned nooky you’re coming to, fellas. We’re the only house on the block without a two-car garage. And no automatic door opener!”

Inside was cool and subdued, carpeted throughout. Betty described some of the wooden objects she had collected on her various trips: a loom from Canada, sticks from Taiwan, bowls from Africa. I was assigned the guest room, which shared a bathroom with the master. Otto would be on one of the foldout couches in the living room and have a bathroom to himself.

“Sit down and relax at the kitchen table, you two. As they say in the pictures, take a load off. Nobody gets too formal around here.”

She made us two “California burgers” each, thick and juicy with lettuce, tomato, red onion, and Kaiser rolls. I washed them down with several glasses of iced tea, followed by a slice of cantaloupe.
I took a shower and called it a night. Uncle Ralph wasn’t back yet from his meeting with the Bonsai Club.

I sorted through my red duffel bag in the guest room, amazed by the disappearance of Steal This Book. I sifted through the heap several times. Where could that have gone missing? Big Sur? Hearst Castle? I remembered noticing the book last in Santa Cruz.

“Holy mackerel. Abbie Hoffman vaporized. Wow. Books have destinies. That book has no other fate.”