I’ve had as many goodbyes in my life as hellos.

My formative years were spent as a victim in an alcoholic’s dysfunctional family. I left them after my 16^th birthday and began an adventure that became my life. 

Hitchhiking on highways was a common way to travel when I was a teenager. Mass shootings by terrorists or crazy people were unheard of, so motorists weren’t frightened to give a kid a lift back then. The super highways, toll roads, and expressways were still in the process of construction, and communication was confined to the post office or a pay phone. There wasn’t a national missing person network either. The only photos on milk cartons back then were of cows. So a young adventurer was free to roam from town to town without question or interference from the police.

And so, after penning a note of my pain and disappointment, I left my home and family in search of a better life.

I had a little money saved from my job at the Go-Kart track, so I bought a cowboy hat, a pair of boots and a Levi jacket on my way out of the city. I wore this disguise to pique the interest of truckers or tourists who were traveling west.

There were kind people who I met and traveled with who worried for me. Some bought me meals as we traveled and others would give me a few bucks after our journey together ended. They would pull over to the side of the road, wish me good luck, and hand me the money with a parental worried smile. “You be careful out there.” They would say.

Some people picked me up and offered me work. I would help them out and be paid in room and board plus a few dollars. I worked on truck farms, bussed tables and washed dishes in small dinners. In Montana, I mixed paints and held a ladder for a sign painter, named Sandy, who painted with his right hand while sipping whiskey from a pint bottle in his left. He was an amazing artist. I had to leave him because we would argue about my wages. He continually forgot that I worked for him and never remembered my name.

My best job was on a small cattle and horse ranch in Oregon. I was there for months. The people I worked for treated me as one of their family and had no idea of how special they were or how they had saved me. I never told them of how I would lay on my bunk before sleep wishing that they would adopt me. I felt like I was loved for just being me and began to develop confidence in who I was. I could make something of my self, something other than a run-away drifter. I had passed my 17^th birthday when I left them.

I’m not good at staying in touch with people I leave behind, probably because it became a habit. I would spend a short time with them and couldn’t share addresses or phone numbers because I didn’t have them. When we parted, it was forever. To feel sad at the end of our time together, or to wish I could continue to be with them wasn’t possible. I didn’t belong to anyone but myself.

My travels began so long ago. I’m old. I’m sick. I’m dying. So I guess this is the appropriate time for an old man to think back through his life. To feel sorry for mistakes, but also to feel grateful to the people who have made the fabric that wove my life. The people I said hello and goodbye to.

So, I want to tell them now, those people who enlightened me, who taught me, who made me feel valuable, the people who saved me.

Thanks for the lift.