My mom and I disagree about how old we were when my
brother Mark and I embarked upon our first long distance hitchhiking excursion.
She says I was about 13; I’m sure I was no older than 11 and our dad thought
that was about right. My brother was 20 months younger than me.
At any rate, we had talked our parents into letting us
stay a few days longer at our ‘rich’ cousin’s lake house near Crookston, MN –
about 300 miles from our house in the Twin Cities. How were we going to get home?
We were going to hitchhike.
On the fine July day back in the early ‘60’s when we
started our journey, Uncle Jack dropped us off at an unremarkable intersection
in the Red River Valley – pretty much in the middle of nowhere. There wasn’t
any traffic, and Mark and I got into a discussion of who was the better
hitchhiker. I was older and had hitchhiked home from school way more times than
brother Mark, but Mark was adamant that he was better at getting rides. Being
extremely competitive in everything we did, we ended up making this into a
contest - a long distance race; the first one home would be the better
hitchhiker, the winner of the race – no bones about it! We flipped a coin and
Mark won. I slipped off into the cornfield to await my turn on the old,
potholed, ribbon of highway.
The first vehicle to come by was an old, beat up pick-up
truck which stopped and picked up Mark. Bad ride, I thought to myself; that old
guy isn’t going to go very far. I jumped out of the cornfield and waited for my
ride. The next car was a guy going about 30 miles down the road and I grinned
and waved to Mark in the old pick-up when we passed him along the way. I was
sure I was going to win.
My second ride took a little longer to get, and while I
was waiting, Mark passed me by in the front seat of some car with a lady
driving. Shoot, I wondered how far she
was going to take my brother! We played ‘leap frog’ 3 or 4 times like this,
each time waving to the other brother with a big grin, each of us gloating big
time when we were in the lead. This was a great race! The day was warm, the sky
was blue and all was well with the world.
Finally, some distance north of Little Falls, I picked up
a ride with 2 guys in a new Plymouth who said they were going all the way to the
Twin Cities. These guys were really surprised that a little kid like me was
hitchhiking all the way from ‘Up North’. I told them all about my cousins and
how I talked my dad into letting me make the trip – not saying anything about
my mom who didn’t like the idea at all, or my brother Mark, who I knew was in
front of me somewhere. After quite a conversation, they offered to go out of
their way and drop me off at an intersection only about a mile from our house.
Way cool; I was going to win. There was no way Mark could catch up now!
Unfortunately, on our way through Little Falls, I saw my
brother a few blocks ahead, hitchhiking near a stop light. The two guys saw him
too, “Look at that”, the driver said. “Another little kid hitchhiking. Let’s
pick him up.” I was horrified! “No, don’t pick him up”, I stammered. “There
isn’t any room back here for another person”, and I stretched both arms as wide
as I could reach across the huge back seat. The two guys gave me a puzzled look, eyeing
the skinny little kid with a crew cut in the back seat of the huge Plymouth,
and said, of course there was plenty of room.
Extreme frustration set in and I realized that Mark and I
hadn’t thought of the possibility of both of us getting a ride in the same car
all the way home. When Mark got in the car, I immediately explained to him that
this was actually ‘my ride’; that I got into the car first, so I must be the
winner. “Na-ahhh”, Mark said. “The first one home wins the race, and we aren’t
home yet” he said. Sometime during this sophisticated discussion, the two guys
looked more closely at us and realized that we were brothers. When we explained
that we were in a hitchhiking race they had a hard time believing us. But,
there we were; how else could they explain how two little kids were hitchhiking
alone through Minnesota?
Mark and I had to make a revision to the rules: The first
one of us to actually touch the front door of our house would win. Nope, not
the first one in the yard; the first one to touch the door. OK, so this was
going to end up being a footrace.
After a long ride, the Plymouth finally pulled to the
shoulder of Hwy. 65 at Mississippi Street in our hometown of Fridley. We were
both so keyed-up and jumpy we could hardly stand it. Before the car was
completely stopped, both the back doors of the Plymouth flew open and we both blew
out of the car at a dead run, each of us carrying our dirty clothes and a
swimming suit in brown paper sacks. We lived a mile away from the intersection
and we were both great runners with lots of races behind us. But this one was
different – our biggest race ever.
We were neck and neck, running as fast as our young legs
could carry us. My legs were burning and my lungs were bursting, but I couldn’t
let my little brother beat me. I pushed even harder, dredging up every last bit
of strength I could muster. Mark was doing the same. Our young heart’s pumping
harder than they had ever pumped before. Sweat kept running into our eyes,
blurring our vision and burning as we wiped it off with already wet forearms. Block
after block we ran through total exhaustion; can you picture this?
At last we rounded the final corner into the
neighborhood, and I could see our house. I had an idea of dropping my paper bag
as soon as we got to our yard to lighten the load, certain that this would help
me win. Mark had the same idea and dropped his bag too. As we raced up the
gently sloping yard, I thought my legs would give out, but we both kept running
as fast as we could.
My last idea was that I wouldn’t actually climb up the
front steps; I would jump across the steps to get just a half second advantage
and touch the front door before Mark. My timing was perfect, and at the base of
the steps, I jumped as hard and long as I could, reached my arm out, and
touched the door with just the tips of my fingers. At that exact moment of
glory, I looked to my right and Mark had done the same thing. We both had
touched the door at the exact, same, moment! Unbelievable; the race had begun
hours before, hundreds miles away, and had ended in an exact tie! We were both
kinda scraped up from our skid across the concrete steps and completely out of
breath, but as we laid there we started to giggle – and the giggles turned into
laughs, and the laughs kept up until our sides hurt.
That is the last footrace I remember having with my
brother Mark, who was killed a few short years later.
There is nothing
else like brothers growing up together. Sometimes ‘partners in crime’ when
something goes wrong, they are ferocious competitors when the opportunity
arises. But, brothers are first of all best friends, discovering their world
together with all of its wonder and adventure, developing passion’s and
camaraderie’s that will be shared through a lifetime. I’m so glad my brothers
and I shared those years together so long ago. I would not be the person I am
today without them.
John Mickman,
President of Mickman Brothers (with brother Chris!)
Mickman Brothers Holiday Fundraiser
1-800-446-4229
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