Ode to Sam

“You boys been drinkin’?, the middle-age man who picked us up asked. We mumbled something incoherent in reply.  And as the car traveled toward Milwaukee, Sam and I grew quite.  “Maybe we should go back I finally said under my breath.”  Sam said nothing. 

Our trek began an hour earlier, around midnight,  and I would be lying if I told you I remember which bar we were at that night.  Sam and I had spent most the evening drinking beer and complaining about our hometown. We had both recently graduated from Oconomowoc High School and we were itching to start living life.  We were ready to break out – have some adventure – shake the dust of this little town off our feet and start living.  We worked each other up as the night went on until finally Sam said, “Let’s do it! Let’s leave!  Let’s leave right now!!” 

“YES!” I responded, “Right now!”  We walked out of the bar and started walking toward the freeway.  When we got to highway 67, we turned around and started walking backwards with our thumbs out and as we walked we made plans to head to the  East coast, find work on a dock, then a freighter  and then travel the world!

We passed our High School on the way out of town and we symbolically flipped it off.  It represented all those who were content to stay on the straight and narrow path, compliantly tripping off to college and then a life time of working for THE MAN.  Not us!  We were going to live life on our own terms - have some adventure!  

Our first ride took us as far as I-94.  And as we walked toward the entrance ramp the cold night air began to dampen my enthusiasm.  We had only the clothes on our backs and a few dollars between us.   I started to have second thoughts.  Sam, on the other hand, seemed as determined as ever and I didn’t want to be a coward.  We caught our next ride, and as the miles ticked by, my reservations grew and I said it again.  “Sam, maybe we should go back.”  Sam still didn’t look at me but a few minutes later he told the man who picked us up.  “Pull over – this is where we’re getting out.” 

He dropped us off on the side of I-94, just south of Milwaukee, at mile marker 311.  I know it was mile marker 311 because I watched as Sam worked the sign loose from its pole.  He was determined to get proof that we had ventured at least this far into the unknown.  “At least we tried!”  Sam shouted into the night air.

We hitchhiked back to Oconomowoc, lugging the sign with us.  We arrived at three in the morning and I took the sign and hid it in my garage.  I few weeks later I was horrified to see the “311” sign attached to a telephone pole right beside our driveway.  My grandfather found the sign and because our address was 311 E. Summit Avenue, assumed its purpose was to mark our house number and so he attached it to the pole.  For years, every time I saw it, I thought of Sam and I wondered how different our lives might have been if we hadn’t turned back.  I also thought about what a great friend he was.  We had other adventures together but I lost track of Sam a few years after he went off to UW-Madison. 

This week I learned that Samuel P. Johnson lost his battle with cancer and even though I had no contact with him in the last forty years, I mourn his passing.  Because, forty years later, I know how rare it is to find a friend like Sam.