FOOTPRINTS, The Autobiography

..... Excerpted from FOOTPRINTS,

In the winter of 1968-69, I started talking to Suzie about getting married. I was only a twenty year-old college sophomore, but I had been living away from my parents for almost five years. Mom and Dad were still in Libya, a place I was unlikely ever to see again. My siblings, my friends, all were spread out around the world, many of them unknown to one another. Yet, here was Suzie, one of the prettiest and most popular girls at Clarion, who, for some reason, had found me attractive enough to pursue. She was kind, she was caring, she was smart, she was everything I had longed for practically my whole life. I had been disappointed in love before, so I knew one thing for sure: I didn’t want to lose her!

Of course, neither of us had any money. Nor did we have jobs or even any idea how we might support ourselves. It was foolish even contemplating marriage under such circumstances. But I was too young and too motivated to care.

Suzie was still going to church almost every Sunday. Often, in fact, she was up on the altar playing the tambourine while hymns were being sung. Even though she no longer considered herself a committed Catholic, she still enjoyed being among the people there. Two priests, in particular, Father Somers and Father Zeitler, were among the people she liked most.

Father Somers was an academic who taught at the college. An eccentric, mid fifty-ish intellectual, he had a natural kindness about him and a gift for the English language that made him both endearing and fascinating to be around.

Zeitler, on the other hand, was a much younger man of thirty, or so. He counseled students at the campus Newman Center with a cheerfulness and enthusiasm that made him a favorite with the kids. If Suzie were going to marry me, she said, then one of these two men should perform the ceremony. Being better acquainted with Father Somers, I called him for the appointment.

When we met, I guess I expected the good pastor to approve our plans right away, but he didn’t, of course. How could he? Instead, he explained how it takes more than love to sustain a marriage and suggested we put off our plans until later.

‘Rats!’ I thought. “That is not what I wanted to hear.’

Disappointed, I let things go for a few weeks. Then one day, I approached Suzie again. I reminded her that I was not a Catholic in the first place, and I suggested we get a second opinion by going to see Judge Weaver at the county courthouse. She agreed, and I made the phone call.

Judge Weaver was quite a bit older even than Father Somers, and he was certainly no greater fool. He looked across his enormous desk at the two of us huddled before him, and then spoke…

“Hold off,” he said, “until you are ready!”

After that, I dropped the subject for awhile. Summer was approaching, so I started working on my next brainstorm. Why couldn’t we, I wondered, hitchhike to a seaside resort, get jobs, save up some money, and then take off for a happy life of wandering in Europe? Already, we had done some serious hitchhiking around the east coast with our friends, Kathy Byrne and Rick Sherbondy. Why couldn’t we do the same thing in Germany or France?

Suzie, bless her heart, thought this was a wonderful idea. And, when I told Kathy and Rick about it, they agreed. In fact, if Suzie and I went through with it, they said, so would they. Then another friend, Linda Loxterman, found out about it, and she wanted to go, too. My goodness, this was getting more interesting by the hour.

For some reason, we selected Ocean City as our destination. Just to be sure we could find work and a place to stay, Rick and I decided to go on ahead of the girls and check it out. So, early one morning, we loaded our sleeping bags, our backpacks and our guitars into the trunk of friend’s car and got a lift down to the Pennsylvania Turnpike at Swissvale.

With so much baggage, we knew it would be a challenge getting someone to pick us up, and sure enough, it was. So we did something which had worked well in the past; we split up.

It took me only two rides to get all the way to Ocean City. My first driver was a young marine headed for Dover, Delaware. He was pleasant enough, though neither one of us did much talking. But then, outside of Dover, I was picked up by a very talkative Jewish man from New York City. He was nice enough, too, at first, but then he saw the German camera I was carrying, my father’s Rolleiflex, and he became quite irritated.

“Do you know what that camera cost?” he asked almost menacingly. “Two Jewish lives… that’s what. TWO JEWISH LIVES!” Then he launched into a lecture about the Germans and the holocaust.

I certainly sympathized with his point of view, but sitting there in his car, with no possible way to conceal my blond hair and blue eyes… and clutching my father's Rolleiflex… I confess, I was pretty anxious to get to Ocean City.

Already, lights were coming up along the Boardwalk, so I slipped on my backpack, picked up my guitar and sleeping bag and headed in that direction...

Ocean City sits on a narrow ten-mile stretch of sandbar. It is connected to the Maryland coast by a bridge, and we crossed that bridge just as the sun was going down. My ride found a spot to drop me off as soon as we got to the other side. Already, lights were coming up along the Boardwalk, so I slipped on my backpack, picked up my guitar and sleeping bag and headed in that direction. Soon, I was standing on the boards, gazing down at the people on the beach and the surging ocean behind. All around me, people were strolling in the evening air, taking in the sights and sounds of the Boardwalk.

I knew I was going to sleep on the beach that night. There was no other choice, of course, if I were going to conserve what little money I had. But the smell of caramel corn in the air was reminding me that I needed to eat. So, I chose a direction and started walking. Before long, I reached a man selling hot dogs, and I bought one.

I felt so free and happy that night, walking among the tourists and the vendors, with their salt water taffy and souvenirs. I came upon a head shop carrying psychedelic t-shirts. I couldn’t afford to buy one, but the shirts were displayed under a black light, and I marveled at how it made them look. My day had been long, however, and people were now mostly gone from the beach. It was time to begin looking for a restroom and a place to roll out my sleeping bag.

That night, I slept under the Boardwalk, the sound of the ocean in my ears.

When I awoke, the beach was nearly deserted but for the many seagulls which were soaring and screeching in the wind. I ate some chocolate I had in my pack, and then I went off to use the restroom. My first order of business, though, was to find Rick. I wasn’t expecting any difficulty. In fact, I was half-surprised I hadn’t already seen him walking up and down the Boardwalk. So, I got some instructions from a vendor, who was just opening his stall, and I made off in the direction of the post office.

There was a problem, though, of which neither Rick nor I had been aware. Ocean City, Maryland, is not the only Ocean City on the east coast. In fact, there is another Ocean City only 80 miles away in New Jersey. And, while I was at the one we had intended, Rick’s ride had taken him to the other one. I still didn’t know this as I walked back and forth between the post office and the Boardwalk all day, so I was getting worried.

Thankfully, though, Rick had figured things out and was on his way. We found each other late in the afternoon, down at the beach.

Ocean City turned out to be just what we were looking for. Rick and I both managed to score jobs right away at a hotel called the George Washington. I told our interviewer I had enough short-order experience to be a cook in the downstairs café. This, of course, was total nonsense, but I thought I could fake it. Rick, on the other hand, was a little more honest. He was hired to do pretty much anything and everything. What really clinched the deal, however, was when they offered us free living space in a dormitory behind the hotel.

Delighted with our good fortune, we dropped off most of our things at the dormitory and headed back to Pennsylvania to collect the girls. When all five of us returned to Ocean City a few days later, the girls were hired on the spot, and they were also given rooms in the dormitory. Suzie and Kathy would be waitresses in the dining room, Linda would waitress in the café.

In the meantime, another short-order cook had been hired , and this one actually had some experience. So, by copying everything I saw him doing, I could learn to manage. But, as it turned out, the hotel was under new owners, and they were as lost in their jobs as we were in ours. Things were so disorganized, in fact, that, within days, all five of us were talking about finding someplace else to go.

Throughout all of this, though, I was still thinking about marriage. So, I broached the subject again, and, once again, Suzie thought we should talk to a priest. We found one down the Boardwalk, a ruddy complexioned, stocky man with a broad smile and a pleasant disposition. His name was Father Mack. But, of course, once again, we were advised to wait.

By now, I was tired of putting it off, and, frankly, so was Suzie. She was beginning to have doubts about the propriety of our hitchhiking around the country together as singles. So, on June 16^th, a Monday, we caught a ride into Snow Hill, county seat of Worcester County. We located the courthouse and went in to apply for a marriage license. Then, having been told we had to wait a day before getting married, we hitched a ride back to Ocean City.

The next morning, June 17, 1969, was sunny and beautiful. Linda was scheduled to work, but Kathy, Rick, Suzie and I all had the day off. So, the four of us got dressed, had some breakfast in the hotel kitchen and then headed out to the highway to thumb a ride back to Snow Hill.

Hardly had we got our thumbs out before a thin, middle-aged man in a blue and white sedan pulled over...

You never know who is going to pick you up when you are hitchhiking. One day you might get a driver who is fascinating or friendly or both. The next day you might find yourself riding for hours with someone who is almost frightening in the things he will say to you. You just never know. But the ride we caught on this most memorable of days was one of those marvelous encounters in life that just happens to come along at the perfect moment. Hardly had we got our thumbs out before a thin, middle aged man in a blue and white sedan pulled over and asked us where we were going.

“Snow Hill,” we all said in unison.

And then Kathy offered, “We are going to a wedding!”

“Wonderful,” he said. “Hop in!”

We all climbed into the car.

. “Who’s wedding is it?” he asked, when we were comfortable.

“They’re sitting right next to you!” said Kathy from the back seat. “David and Suzie!”

At this point, just about any other middle-aged person on the planet might have thought himself in the company of idiots. After all, none of us looked anything like what one would have expected from a wedding party. Rick and I both had our guitars, and all of us were wearing blue jeans. Suzie had on a very loud yellow and red paisley dashiki, and, as hard as it is to imagine today, she was out hitchhiking with no shoes on. Yet, to this man, running into us was a cause for celebration!

As we continued down the highway, he told us his name was Bill Gale. He said he was from Wilmington, Delaware. He had just been released from Johns Hopkins in Baltimore, where he had been receiving psychiatric treatment. He explained that he and his wife had a tradition of vacationing separately every year. Only, this year, he hadn't planned anything in advance. We had caught him wandering down the Maryland coast, simply looking for something to do.

“My wife told me I could spend $1,000.00,” he said, “and, until you guys came along, I had no idea what I was going to do. But now I do!”

And so, there were five of us now in the wedding party. We arrived in Snow Hill and pulled up in front of the courthouse. I went inside, but the clerk was away at lunch. So Bill parked the car, and everyone got out. We chatted for a while. Rick and I played our guitars. Then, after a time, I went back inside and picked up our marriage license.

Next, Bill insisted we get the bride some flowers, so we walked a couple of blocks over to where we were told there was a gift shop. We waited inside while Bill had a white bouquet made up for Suzie. He picked up a roll of film for his camera, and he bought Suzie a little make-up compact as a gift. Suzie, meanwhile, read poems to us all from an E.E. Cummings book she had taken down from the shelf.

Then, it was time to find a church. We had noticed a couple of them right next to each other near the center of town, so we headed in that direction. We reached the first one but found no one there, so we walked across the lawn to the building next door.

It was the First Presbyterian Church, and, for us, nothing in particular distinguished it from any other. Except, that is, at this one the pastor was present. We asked him if he would marry us, and he said he would. His wife and daughter might like to be present, though. Could we wait just a bit while he ran to get them?

There were scaffolds set up behind the altar. The church was being renovated. But, with its stained glass windows and vaulted ceiling, I thought it a fine setting for our ceremony. After several minutes, the pastor appeared with his wife and daughter. You could see in their faces they were excited. With so much joy in the room, you’d have thought we were all getting married!