This is a story about a trip home at the holidays. It captures a moment in time when America's youth was hitching the highways of America.
This is a true story of one of my trips home for Christmas back in the early seventies.
Wreath Trip
Just about ten days before Christmas in 1973, I rode down Highway 199 from Oregon to California, and on to San Francisco to sell some holiday wreaths. It was the beginning of my annual trek from my West Coast communal home to my East Coast family home during that time of year when families tend to come together for the exchange of gifts and stories. For once, I wasn’t hitching, but traveling in a big truck loaded with wreaths we’d woven from Douglas fir branches. We’d clipped the greenery from trees in the Takilma valley where I’d been visiting with friends before my journey back to Florida.
On the ride down, the air in the truck was filled with the evergreen scent of the mountain air. We sang of cowgirls in the sand and moonlight ladies. We chanted to various deities from around the world and crooned a few favorite carols. It was a diverse approach to the holiday season before anyone even talked about diversity.
We set up in the square at the heart of the City by the Bay where it’s so easy to leave your heart. There’s magic in the air of that glorious urban environment. Maybe it’s the breathtaking scenery or the salt and eucalyptus that you breathe. Maybe it’s the leftover vibrations of all the artists and poets and free-thinkers that have walked the streets there. Whatever its genesis, the city has an aura that will catch the heart of any person who encounters it.
We were surrounded by artists selling beautiful things. It was a gas sitting in the sun in the midst of the creative joy that was evident in every direction I looked. It was groovy to hear the sounds of flutes and drums in the middle of the city. I danced around the square with the abandonment of love, savoring the rush of emotions from those around me. The thrill of joyful voices and laughter mixed with the musical sounds around me in that magical square where brothers and sisters came to sell. Our wreaths shouldn’t have been able to compete with the beautiful art for sale all around us, but everybody wanted an Oregon wreath. We sold out quickly.
I was never really a capitalist, but this was more like an offering to the world of things that would make people happy. Even so, I made some money. I spent it all on gifts for those at home or gave it to people who seemed to need it. I never travelled with cash in my pocket. I never needed it. Like Hermann Hesse’s Siddhartha, I could think, I could fast and I could wait. I had no needs that ever went unfulfilled as long as I followed the call of my free heart.
At night we crashed with friends of the people I’d driven down with. We saved a wreath for them. I traded one for a silver bracelet I knew my sister would love. I saved one to take home for my mother. She loved the smell of fir trees. She loved the feel of Christmas. I never missed a Christmas at her side, even when I lived most of the year out on the edge of change in the communes of the West. She was the heart and soul of the Christmas spirit.
There were only a few more days to Christmas when I started the long journey to my East Coast home. I stood by the side of the road holding my mother’s Christmas wreath. I stuck out my trusty thumb and smiled at the passing cars. It took no time at all. I was quickly riding down the road telling tales of selling wreaths in San Francisco and what it would be like to hang one on my parents’ front door. I had no delay between rides and the drivers drove all day and into the night. I knew I’d have no trouble making it home for Christmas.
A couple of days later, I opened the front door of my parent’s house. It was never locked. I stepped in with my mother’s wreath, something rare in Florida during those long ago days. I was instantly surrounded with my family and their love.
My mother proudly hung her Oregon wreath on the front door of our house after painting the door red to match the beauty of the greenery. It looked perfect, as perfect as it had on the ground where we sat selling in the midst of San Francisco, as perfect as it had as we wove the branches and loaded it onto the truck. It was at home here, there, and everywhere. I was at home here, there, and everywhere.
Home is a state of mind. It comes with the comfort of being at peace with the surrounding atmosphere. It comes with the vibrations of love that assure its place in our hearts. I felt at home on the road with my thumb out for a ride. I felt at home in the wilds of Oregon and surrounded by the beauty that abounds throughout this glorious nation that we also call home. But there is a special place in the heart for that place that defines the relationships that are longest lasting and forever in our hearts. Being home with my siblings and parents would always bring a special kind of peace that is the foundation of being able to feel comfortable everywhere else.
That wreath took a monumental journey. I remember those days well. But when I hitchhiked with my brother, rides were a little harder to come by. Women always had it easier than men, hitchhiking. You certainly didn't need money to travel and get enough to eat, even if you only caught sleep riding in a car through the night. But, you must've been quite brave to travel such a distance in wintertime alone. In those days, traveling alone in my car, I gave many hitchhikers a ride, bought them food, and even put up some with me in motels at night.
You are right about San Francisco. I wanted to live there, but couldn't afford it, So I drove up there every chance I got from the Peninsula and just took in the ambience.
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This is a true story of one of my trips home for Christmas back in the early seventies.
