The other day, I recounted to my son, Pete, a story about hitchhiking while a young undergrad at Southern Illinois University in Carbondale.

In 1972, people were neither particularly freaked out about picking up hitchers, nor too scared to thumb a ride.  Songs extolling the praises of riding the asphalt as a free spirit were commonplace (“Me and Bobby McGee”; “Sweet Hitchhiker”; “Hitchin’ a Ride”).

On several occasions, when traveling alone, I played the part of “hitchee.”  During a trip to see several of my Army buddies in New York City, the journey became boring, tiresome, and somewhat daunting – not to mention uncomfortably hot during August in a 1965 Dodge Polara with vinyl seats and no air conditioning.

Somewhere in eastern Ohio or western Pennsylvania I spotted two longhairs with their thumbs out.  If one hadn’t had a guitar slung over his shoulder, I might have passed them by.  (Ignoring the whole Charlie Manson-as-musician thing as an anomaly, I inferred that these guys were essentially harmless.)

As it turned out, they were college students on their way home to Newark, NJ, after spending the summer hanging around the Haight-Ashbury district of San Francisco.

I had a reservation at a Holiday Inn about midway through Pennsylvania, and (perhaps somewhat foolishly) snuck them into my room.  Happy to finally be spending a night inside, they considered sleeping on the floor plus unlimited use of indoor plumbing somewhat akin to luxury accommodations.

When I deposited them near the Newark airport the following day, I was sorry to say farewell.

On the return trip, I picked up a westbound passenger in the same general area.

That guy was a young Frenchman who had spent pretty much all of his money just getting across the pond.  His destination was Chicago, but he’d only had enough for airfare to New York.

In true French fashion, he had embarked upon his quest for love of a woman.  As it turned out, she lived less than a mile from my North Side apartment; to his great pleasure and surprise, I was able to drop him off right at her door.

Conversely, my own experiences as a “hitcher” were usually of the local variety, born out of necessity rather than for travel purposes.

At 15, I had a job at a McDonald’s about five miles from home.  Most days, my Mother wouldn’t give me a ride, requiring that I take the bus.  A major problem was that the bus route ended over two miles from the McD’s.  So, I generally thumbed the last leg of the way.

I shall never forget the time a woman of 60 or so picked me up in her air-conditioned 1966 Polara two-door hardtop.  Unlike the “Plain Jane” version as described above, (originally) purchased by my Father, this car had all the bells, whistles and bling – including a 383 Hemi V8.

It was obvious that this woman smoked like a prohibition against cigarettes was about to begin.  She also drove as though automobiles were to be banished the next day.

In all honesty, I never rode with a teenager who had as heavy a foot, or weaved between cars as much – she was Northern Illinois’ very own version of Jan and Dean’s “Little Old Lady From Pasadena”.  That woman scared the shit out of me.

Moving forward six years, the occurrence which I had related to my son took place on a blisteringly scorching Saturday afternoon.  Without going into great detail, I didn’t have a car at university that quarter because my parents remained mired in the 1940s.

Seeking carnal pleasures and/or a little noble weed, I went along with a pair of young ladies to their trailer in a “park” south of Carbondale.  When it became obvious that there would be no success regarding either pursuit, I headed back to town.

The midday heat being almost paralyzing, I sought free vehicular transport.  It short order an old school bus pulled up.  The driver was a young man who had transformed the conveyance into a most remarkable rolling apartment.

In addition to a kitchen, living area, and sleeping space, he had installed an incredible stereo system with speakers all around – better than most home systems of the day.

The guy was a musician, a modern day troubadour who traveled a circuit of college towns.  He was, as Peter Fonda said of the farmer in “Easy Rider”, “…doing his own thing in his own time.”

My point in all this is that, back when I was a young man, beautiful people were found everywhere.  We had no logical reason to fear extending a helping hand to, or reaching out for a little help from, our contemporaries.

At 30, in Pete’s lifetime one would not, could not, even consider giving a ride to a stranger; nor would anyone with half a brain think about hitching a ride.

The world has become treacherous, and it has nothing to do with terrorists.

We have lost pretty much all sense of the camaraderie and brotherliness that bubbled up throughout the late 1960s and early 1970s.  We tail-end baby boomers, my generation, tried to share love for all living beings and spread the fruits of goodwill throughout the family of man.

These days, most unfortunately, whenever anyone speaks out for peace and understanding, the response is typically virulent and insulting – oftentimes threatening — from those who dwell within the realm of intolerance.

Self-importance has soured mankind’s focus, and our family has become an utterly dysfunctional lot.

How sad.

Shalom.

Jerry Tenuto has earned a BS in Radio-Television and an MA in Telecommunications from Southern Illinois University-Carbondale.  In addition to some 25 years in broadcasting, he is a seven-year veteran of the U.S. Army.  Since 1995, Jerry has found himself trapped in a “Red” enclave within the middle of the “Blue” state of Illinois, which he refers to as “slow death hell.”