Sometimes I think about my rambling days — the late 60s and early
70s. Then, when it was a “damp, drizzly November in my soul”, I
wouldn’t, like Ishmael, sign on for a three-year whaling voyage — I’d
get a lift to the nearest Interstate, stick out my thumb, and . . . go.
I might have a vague destination in mind, or I might not. I wouldn’t
have much money on me — that’s for sure. Ten or fifteen dollars stuck
in the toe of my shoe. I just threw myself on the mercy of the world,
and chance. The world and chance never let me down.
It was madness, of course, in practical terms. God knows what might
have befallen me on such journeys. But people were infallibly kind and
generous, and interesting. The world seemed a sweeter and safer place
than it has ever seemed since — when I had more to lose.
When you’re homeless in this world, then you’re home. When you’re on
the road, you’re at journey’s end. When you’re lost, you’re found.
How many of us, in our rambling days, have known this . . . and