Chapter 1 – ON THE LINCOLN HIGHWAY (1925)
No road on the journey of life is alike, but the destination is the same for everyone
It has been a long day and the late afternoon sky is getting darker as the sun began to disappear behind the hills to the west. The old Indian motorcycle started to cough and vibrate as the fuel began to run low. Little dirt particles from the bottom of the gas tank started to clog the fuel filter. The rider knew what was wrong and how to fix it, but he was also acutely aware that there was no place nearby to buy some petrol. He also knew that he only had enough money for fuel or food, but not both. The bike coasted to a final stop. Dirt covered goggles and a knitted beanie hat, were removed. Weary eyes searched for a comfortable spot by the side of the road to spend the night. A spot of light flickering through the tree line, hinted the presence of a distant farmhouse. The rider silently whispered under his breath; “Lord, It looks like I’m in trouble, I sure hope you can send me some help”. He was a handsome young fellow and only nineteen, but capable in many ways from several years of life on his own. He pulled the bike off to a patch of grass near a craggy old tree and untied a bedroll that consisted of a blanket wrapped up in an old oilcloth. They served as a ground cover and sleeping bag or parka as the situation demanded. A well worn pair of leather side saddle bags yielded up a few essential items to make camp. Matches from a cigarette tin ignited kindling and the warmth of a fire began to comfort the aches and pains that accompany a very long motorcycle ride. The pantry in a crumpled brown paper bag was almost empty with the remains of a cookie, a piece of cheese wrapped in wax paper, and some chewing gum. The cookie and cheese were quickly dispatched leaving the gum for a later dessert. A dented old canvas covered Boy Scout canteen provided a few sips of water that was still warm from hanging to close to the exhaust manifold.
The immediate circumstances were daunting, but the future will hold better things for the lad. I know this because I have been with him for the sum of his years, posted if you will, with the duty of insuring his safety and survival. Actually I have been assigned responsibility for a number of souls all inter-connected to one another. I will tell you about some of the others later but for now, suffice to say, I am his guardian angel. Seconds after his inaudible prayer, I was dispatched by his side. He has fallen asleep by the campfire, so let me indulge in the telling of events that resulted in his present situation. My job has not been easy. As a boy he lived in Philadelphia. His name by the way is Herbert, but his family and friends call him Herb for short. Sometimes they call him “Little Herb” because there was very large man also named Herb, who lived in the apartment above his family. His mother and father are immigrants from Germany. Herb was born on September 6th, 1906. The World War I started in 1914 and ended in 1918. There were still many who did not like anyone associated with the Kaiser and hence, Germany. Life for a ten year old German boy was especially tough. It didn’t help that his parents had a German accent, and that he had curly, long blond hair which his mother Marie, refused to cut. On the way home from school, other children would throw rocks at Herb. The neighborhood kids would yell “Huns go back to Germany” and many other unkind taunts. I was able to find one Chinese boy who had a good heart. I arranged for them to meet as they were running from a group of schoolyard thugs. They both hid in the same vacant tool shed and became friends. Herb was often invited to dinner at his friend’s house but the family was very poor and the only thing they had to eat was rice. Herb’s family was also not very well off, so Herb really appreciated the Chinese family because they shared what little they had. Throughout his life Herb will always associate a warm feeling of friendship when he smells or eats rice.
Herb’s father, Henry, was a God fearing man and always kept his wife and son in his prayers. This is probably the reason why I was assigned to Herb and others connected to his journey of life. Henry was a baker and he would arise early in the morning and report to a small shop on the corner where he would bake bread. He managed to save enough to buy Herbert a Boy Scout Uniform, complete with the canteen that he uses until this very day. Herb grew older and became adept at fixing just about anything that needed to be mended. Let me take you back about five years, to when Herb was fourteen years old. The year is 1920. One day I planted an idea in a neighbor’s mind, to ask Herb if he could come down to his place of business and fix his bicycle. It had a flat tire and a bent front wheel. Herb was glad to help and the neighbor usually tipped generously. The bicycle was repaired quickly and Herb decided to buy a pretzel from the vendor down the street with his newly acquired riches. As he walked toward the pretzel stand, he passed a gym where boxers worked out. He stopped to investigate. Herb was strong but not tall or overly muscular. He was fast on his feet and could handle himself well as a result from a number of encounters with bullies who did not want to suffer the presence of a German boy. One of the gym regulars saw Herb looking on and asked him he was tough enough to be a boxer. Herb smiled and said that he didn’t know because he had never tried. Herb knew that he did not have enough money to join the gym and told the man his dad works as a baker on the next street over but he could not afford to join the boxing club there at the gym. Just then the manager of the gym walked by and I temporarily increased his ability to hear so he could overhear Herb’s comment. He said; “Hey kid, if you sweep up every afternoon, I will give you a few boxing lessons”.