This afternoon I’m having a cateract operation and so won’t be able to do much for a couple of days, so I decided to do a reblog for today. Should be back to normal next week.
This is a lovely tale from Andrew Joyce. I thought I’d share it with you instead of my usual Tuesday post.
by Andrew Joyce
I ran into Jimmy in the summer of 1969 when I was hitchhiking to California. I was standing by the side of the road just outside of Gallup, New Mexico, hoping to catch a ride at least as far as Flagstaff before it got dark. As the sun kissed the rim of the earth, turning the western sky a bright, fiery orange, an old beat-up pickup truck screeched to a halt; the driver leaned toward the open passenger window and said, “Where ya going?”
“I ain’t going that far, but I can get you down the road a bit.”
I threw my kit in the back and hopped inside. The guy hit the accelerator, lurching the truck back onto the asphalt, spewing rocks and pebbles in its wake. Before he hit second gear, and with his eyes still on the road, he said, “My name’s Jimmy. Glad to meet ya.”