In my most recent post I reminisced fondly about the two years that Mary Ann and I spent traveling across America in our old VW bus. We were running away, and we were running to each other. We were hiding every day among the hills, valleys, mountains, deserts, plains and forests that stretch from California to Maine.
That post prompted several reader comments and a flood of emails from readers, all asking the same questions. What were we running from, and why did we stop?
Were we ultimately caught? Did we give up and turn ourselves in? How does the story end? Imaginations ran wild.
I immediately realized that my little story was having unexpected and unintended consequences. In writing the post I had intended only to share the essence of an extraordinary time in our lives—a time made possible, even necessary, by the volatile confluence of fortune and misfortune, passionate love in the midst of passionate struggle, happiness and sadness, boundless freedom and the spirit-smothering shackles of uncertainty and worry. I had not intended to create a mystery.
I had not intended to say more. The reasons behind our two-year trek were complex and intricately woven around and within the most personal aspects of our lives. They are difficult to explain and, I thought, not central to the story. I now see that many readers do not share my point of view. They feel that an amplification of the story is their due.
So, after giving the matter a good deal of thought and discussing it thoroughly with Mary Ann, we have decided to try to answer the questions contained in the emails. However, we first find it necessary to beg the reader’s indulgence. The answers cannot be given within a sentence or paragraph, nor even within a single post. If you wish to discover the answers, to unravel the mystery, you must meet us halfway. You must have patience to hear the explanation.
The starting point for our travels was Austin, Texas. It was January, 1973.
Twelve months earlier, on a cold, wet and dreary morning, Mary Ann had landed at the Austin airport on Delta Airlines flight 1212 from Atlanta, Georgia. The plane opened it’s doors at the terminal gate at 11:23 a.m., exactly eight minutes late.
She had brought with her three cardboard boxes, all checked as baggage. No proper luggage, no carry-on bags. Just three cardboard boxes.
I met her at the gate, and held her tightly for several minutes, standing there in the terminal lost in the joy of being together again, oblivious to all around us. We could not speak. There was no need for words. She was thinner than the last time I had held her. She had been through a lot, and it had taken it’s toll.
Many months had passed since I had last seen her… since I had last kissed her under a canopy of trees in our secret place of retreat along a dirt road in rural Georgia, a secluded spot in the woods some miles south of Atlanta. I had left her that day with a goodbye and a promise in her hand. She had come to redeem that promise.
I loaded the three cardboard boxes into a taxicab, and twenty minutes later carried them up two flights of stairs to a room I had rented for her just the day before. She would be sharing a tiny four room suite in an old dormitory-like building filled with foreign students from places like Pakistan and Malaysia, all attending the University of Texas.
The smell of Nag Champa incense filled the hallways, and more than a few illegal smiles adorned the faces of residents in the ground floor lobby. The rent was cheap and month-to-month, and I had prepaid the rent for exactly thirty days. I knew she wouldn’t be there that long.
I stacked the boxes in a corner of the room, and asked if she’d managed to bring all of the important stuff, if she’d managed to fit it inside the cardboard boxes. She assured me it was all there.
The top box she opened immediately, the others remained untouched, waiting to be moved again when the time had come. From the open box she took the limited wardrobe she had been able to pack inside, changed into a wine colored sweater with buttons on the shoulder and a predominately maroon plaid skirt. We locked the door behind us and took the stairs to the ground floor. She had brought two wigs—one blond, the other near black. She wore neither this time.
Five minutes later we were in the back corner booth in a dimly lit Italian cafe three blocks off the northwest corner of the university campus. Robert, a friend who was to meet us there was on his way, but had not yet arrived. I hoped he would be even later.
We sat on the same side of the table, giddy with the joy of the moment. After months of struggle, fighting against the odds, we were at last together again. The end, we thought, was finally in sight.
To be continued…
{ 5 comments… read them below or add one }
Thanks for continuing the story. You’ve got me intrigued. Now don’t let me down. This is going to be something good isn’t it?
Is this supposed to be a true story? It sounds like it, but I’m not sure if it’s supposed to be truth or fiction. If it is true it is certainly an interesting time that these two people had. I think a lot of people wish they had the freedom to travel around all the time, but most people would not want to do it under such conditions. I too want to know how this comes out and why they felt the need to hide.
I was googling for information about psychedelic hippie VW buses and stumbled upon this blog. Great stuff! Keep it up.
Prentice,
You have me completely hooked! I hope Part 3 is already being written. Bring it on…
Ready for Part IV after reading Mary Ann’s post today!