He was a tall, rangy, Ichabod Crane sort of guy with snapping brown eyes and a wide smile with a tooth on one side missing. He always wore plaid flannel shirts, jeans, work boots with leather laces and a baseball cap that hid his incipient bald spot. He had a loping stride and walked rapidly with his head slightly down, ready to butt his way forward, if necessary.
He crossed the country enumerable times in one of the many rusted trucks he would buy, refurbish and sell over the years. He was a modern nomad, roamer, a gypsy who knew people in every state of the union and would appear and disappear without warning looking for conversation, a beer or a bed for a night or two.
Perhaps it was serving in the navy that sparked his wanderlust, the lure of distant climes, sights and smells but upon returning stateside his travels were confined to national borders. A jack-of-all-trades, a mechanic, a welder, a regular Mr. Fix-it, he made his living as he went, never collecting real wages or paying taxes. There was always a roof to fix, a pipe to mend, a tree to cut, an old friend who needed a hand and so there was always work. Regardless of the greater economy, he was never idle, never completely broke but never rich.
One of his stable sources of income since the 60’s was the transport of marijuana from coast to coast. Never more than a few pounds, but always of the best vintage, his weed was always in demand and he had routes that included California, Colorado, Missouri and Pennsylvania that were dependent on weather and harvests.
He had family along both coasts and would swing like a pendulum between them as the seasons changed. Summer and fall in the east; winter and spring in the west. Along the way he would stop at various woodlands he had discovered and dig up wild gingseng he would later sell. . He was a great one for natural remedies and had a small pharmacy of wild herbs in his backpack.
Because he did all of his traveling alone, he loved having an audience. He was a great storyteller and could talk for hours of the places he had been and sights he had seen. He would easily dominate any conversation and the more reserved of his listeners had little opportunity to add their observations.
He never married, preferring to catch as catch can among the women he met at small town bars or the homes of friends; women who would be attracted by his repertoire of tales and adventures and challenged by his freedom. Women like me.
I met Jack through a friend of a friend. I was fascinated by his stories of places he had seen and people he had met. As a young, divorced mother of two small children, his freedom of movement, his freedom from responsibilities, his rootlessness represented a way of life that I would never have but secretly longed for.
I was willing to vicariously enjoy his travels and eagerly looked forward to the few visits each year he made to my home town. He would suddenly appear at the door one afternoon and for a few hours we would explore the backroads of the countryside or drop in on some of his many friends. It was a break in the routine, a romantic interlude in a lonely season. We kept in touch for more than forty years. While the intimacy faded, the friendship stayed.
Jack traveling came to an end when he was in his late 70’s. An inner ear condition of some kind had permanently affected his balance and vision. He could no longer drive; in fact, one of his many nieces and nephews had to chauffer him anywhere he wanted to go. His sister had some acreage so he bought a small trailer and finally settled down and gathered no more moss.
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