CHAPTER 10
Good decision to wait and hitchhike in the light of day, he decided, and almost before he could complete that thought, his head hit the pillow, falling fast asleep at a fleabag motel near the diner where he had wolfed down a double-deck cheeseburger and french fries. Ah … freedom.
Waking the next morning, he lay stretched out across the spacious double bed and listened to the silence. It had been almost a year since he’d slept alone. Really alone. No army mates, no cellmates, no guards. His mind started grappling with all the options before him.
Luxuriating in a hot shower that didn’t shut off automatically after two minutes, confusion and hesitation slowly crept in, realizing that freedom presented challenges. Nothing prepared him for the sadness and fear that swept over him. Alone meant no one to comfort him. No one to hold him. No one to accompany him on this unforeseen turn of life’s events. Three hundred dollars was all that separated him from a homeless man, an unnerving prospect. He longed for an anchor and, wiping away soapy tears, vowed to find one.
Later, after marveling at all the indulgent breakfast choices, he ordered one of everything his mouth had watered for in prison. Two hours later, small satchel in hand, he stood, thumb out, on a two-lane road heading north. The first pick-up truck driving by slowed to a stop. Okay he thought, trotting up to it, here goes, and he opened the stranger’s passenger door.
The driver, a bearded man of middle age wearing a heavy red plaid flannel shirt gave Lindy a puzzled look when he revealed his destination. “I’m headed for the FX Ranch,” Lindy answered when asked. “Ever heard of it? It’s a commune near Ashcroft.”
“A commune?” his ride questioned in a puzzled tone. Lindy, clean shaven, with short hair and city clothes did not fit the image of a commune resident.
Squirming, Lindy quickly explained that he’d had it with college and was ready for something new. “Well, that will be a big change,” the man acknowledged, vaguely nodding and shrugging his shoulders. Smiling, Lindy thought, good cover, silently congratulating himself for the quick deceptive answer, one of many he would need to deliver as a man on the lam.
Highway 1 curved gracefully and dramatically through a glacier-carved mountain range. A swiftly moving river of an iridescent blue never imagined by the Crayola Company followed the road’s twists and turns. Lindy, visibly relaxed, was rendered speechless by the beauty surrounding him. His breathing deepened and a feeling of comfort began to settle over him. Thoughts of his mother and all the trips to the mountains they had shared together swirled in his mind. Oh Ma, you’re gonna love this, he thought, anticipating their reunion and her being as awestruck with Canada’s beauty as he was at that moment.
Three rides and seven hours later, Lindy had perfected his hitchhiking spiel and was dropped off within walking distance of the property that would define the rest of his life.
Stopping at a small juncture on the highway, Lindy’s last hitch, a grizzled old-timer directed him to “Look for the small painted sign nailed on a big cedar tree,” and pointed toward what looked like a wide trail, before driving off giving him a thumbs up.
Lindy’s final leg of the journey found him wearing an ear to ear grin, while hopping and fairly skipping along a muddy dirt road and listening to a creek cascading under thick tree cover. A worn wooden guidepost led him to a rickety gate with another scrawled message on a board advising him he had arrived. Taking several deep breaths, he pushed it open and stepped through.
In late March, much of the mountainous interior of British Columbia remained snowbound. Pausing, Lindy stood at the entrance to the valley snuggling the FX Ranch imagining the verdant landscape the melt would reveal.
Welcomed immediately by resident Canadians, other war resisters and deserters, Lindy’s smile grew. An anchor? Finally? Yes!
As spring grew warmer, an influx of wanderers came to try the communal life. Communes are nothing if not resourceful, and this one took recycling, even back in 1969, to a remarkable level. Remnants of a ranch house struggled to stay upright, surrounded by the usual assortment of rustic outbuildings. Shoring them all up enough to deem livable used up lots of old logs, newspapers and cardboard. Water for the gardens sporting acres of edibles was diverted from the nearby creek to elaborately engineered irrigation ditches. Lights were candles or kerosene, and outhouses were downwind. Lindy had been raised by an outdoor and resourceful family. This was his element.
By late May, Barry Jones, aka Lindy, was receiving a steady stream of mail from family and friends. Communication from his father was the exception. All felt great relief to hear of his safety and contentment
.
But oh, not so fast, the government was hot on his trail, as Lindy’s sister was to find out. In a call from their mother, she reported to Carol. “I got a phone call from the FBI today. They asked if I knew where my son was.” Her voice fifteen hundred miles away clearly carried the tone of her outrage.
“What did you tell them?” Lindy’s sister asked.
“I told them to ‘go to hell’ and hung up,” she touted.
But the FBI was playing games. They knew exactly where he was. Barry Jones, the new Canadian refugee, took up a speck on their radar soon after his arrival. The United States did not have an extradition agreement with Canada. They couldn’t retrieve him, but they could give his family grief. After their call to Lindy’s mother, Carol noticed the letters to her from Canada clearly had been opened and read before delivery. “Go to hell,” became the Blake family rallying cry.
In one letter, return address Barry Jones, Lindy announced he’d fallen in love. A new girl had come to the ranch and he was smitten.
Hailing from Edmonton, Alberta, his sweetie had come to the FX Ranch trying to heal from the loss of her young mother to cancer. They both were grieving: she, her mother, and he, separation from his entire family. By the middle of June they decided to marry. There was a glitch, however. In Canada, if you wanted to get married before you were 21, you had to have a parent’s signature. They were both 20.
Together they wrote letters to enlist parental permission. The requests were slow to arrive by return mail. “Mail from Canada must be routed through Mozambique,” Lindy observed with a chuckle.
The properly signed letter finally came from the bride’s side in late June. Lindy’s father never responded. A slow mail boat to Hawaii finally connected Lindy’s appeal to his mother.
In a phone call, he asked for an airmail return. “I’m sure you think I’m crazy,” he speculated to his mother. “I’m feeling safe right now. She’s a kindred spirit and I know you’ll like her Ma.”
“Honey,” she replied. “I’m so happy you’re OK. I’ll send the permission letter right back. I can’t wait to meet her. I miss you so much. We seem so far apart, like being on different planets.”
“We’ll make it work someday. You can come here at least, even if I can’t go there,” he said, trying to encourage her. She didn’t need encouraging. What she needed was money. Taking time off work and traveling is expensive. She’d save up.
Finally, the letter from Lindy’s mother arrived that granted permission for him to marry. But upon examination there was something minor but necessary missing. They would have to send her another copy to sign and return. Impatiently, Lindy waited again.
Instead of the long-awaited letter from his mother, there was one from his sister.
For Lindy, the weekly trip to town included the post office. As usual he ripped it open and started reading at once. Her letter delivered devastating news He dropped to his knees. Trembling, he read the short note from his sister again.
“This is the hardest letter I hope I ever have to write,” she began. “I’m so sorry to tell you this horrible news in a letter,” she wrote in a shaky script. “Our beautiful mother was killed two nights ago in a car accident in Hawaii. I’m on my way over to take care of her affairs in a couple of days. It all seems surreal. I’m numb. Call me soon.”
His nightmare had come true. He would never see his mother again.
"Nightmare come true"! What a shame.
What a terrible time! Heart braking for all of us!