Chasing the Strawberry Moon, Hitchhiking (for girls)

By Judith A Grout

Patsy Schwartz has bigger problems to deal with than the Great Depression, the raging Dust Bowl, or another looming world war. Forced to disappear from Baywater, Minnesota to avoid an arranged marriage to the local sheriff’s son, Patsy hits the open road with her best friend, Virginia Burg. Chasing the Strawberry Moon, Hitchhiking (for girls) is an account of the adventures of a young woman as she makes her way west, running from conniving parents, the mob, and corrupt local law enforcement.
The novel weaves together the frustrations of young adults on the move surrounded by countrymen scrambling for survival. The Big War is waiting in the wings ready to take the best and brightest. Dust from the Great Plains is scratching their eyes and filling their nostrils, while Chicago hoods are trailing them along with the sheriff’s son from back home.
Chasing the Strawberry Moon, Hitchhiking (for Girls) is based on the true story of Patricia Schwartz’s journey across the western United States during the sultry summer of 1939. Accompanied by her best friend, they thumb their way across the country, riding with truckers, ranchers, Communists, preachers, artists for the WPA, women motorcyclists, and Civilian Conservation Corpsmen, to name a few.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Judith A Grout
• Release date: Mar 19, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311048431

Book preview

Chasing the

Strawberry Moon

Hitchhiking (for girls)

A Novel* by

Judith Grout

Copyright © 2014 by Judith A Grout

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved

* Inspired by The Freedom of the Open Road,

  a memoir by Patricia Peterson (nee Schwartz)

1922-2009.

Written with the permission and

encouragement of Ms. Peterson.

Foreword

Chasing the Strawberry Moon, Hitchhiking (for Girls) is based on the true story of Patricia Schwartz’s journey across the western United States during the sultry summer of 1939. Accompanied by her best friend, they thumbed their way across the country, riding with truckers, ranchers, Communists, preachers, artists for the WPA, women motorcyclists, and Civilian Conservation Corpsmen, to name a few. The outline and overall arc of the story is taken from the protagonist’s memoirs and personal conversations. Details and embellishments were added by the author for dramatic effect.

Table of Contents

Foreword

About the Author

The Real Life Patsy

Acknowledgements

1 Ultimatum

2 Directions

3 Maximus

4 Rubin

5 The Plan

6 Spotted

7 Daisy

8 Strawberry Moon

9 Felicity

10 Accosted

11 Regrets

12 Revelations

13 Lew

14 The Setup

15 Happy Hart

16 Opportunity Knocks

17 Lessons

18 Snakes

19 Discoveries

20 The Ballroom

21 Anaconda

22 Wild Run

23 Deep Woods

24 The Lazy Ass

25 The Competition

26 Starry-Eyed

27 Remorse

28 Man Troubles

29 Backward Glances

30 Hellsgate

31 Lolo

32 A Helping Hand

33 Close Encounters

34 Aunt Rose

35 Donuts and Dancing

36 The Picnic

37 Connections

38 Threats

39 Big Trouble

40 Splitting Up

1

Ultimatum

Saturday, May 20th, 1939

If Tommy Gun Malone didn’t buy this story, Spats Sullivan knew he was a dead man.

A nasal voice came across the static-filled phone line. Bargain Used Cars. Can I help you? The sound of chewing gum snapped in Spats’ ear.

Lemme talk to Tommy.

And who may I say is calling? Snap. Snap. Snap.

Spats Sullivan.

One moment please.

More static. He drummed manicured nails on the metal shelf in the phone booth and shifted his weight onto his good leg. A minute passed. Sweat stung his eyes. He hoped the boss really was busy. Otherwise, this prolonged wait might be a sign of Tommy’s displeasure—a possibility he didn’t want to contemplate.

The line clicked. Go ahead please.

Tommy?

Yeah, Spats, what’s up?

Just wanted you to know the out-of-town situation’s a done deal. I got a connection in a hick town on the river. This guy’s got the local sheriff in his back pocket.

Is the aforementioned, shall we say, sincere?

Very. So sincere, he plans to get his daughter married to the sheriff’s kid to cement the relationship.

Bad idea, Spatzie. We got no room for a couple of starry-eyed kids in this business. Too big a risk.

Spats mopped his brow. The June sun beating on his back through the phone booth glass didn’t help. Usually summer meant fishing trips up north but this summer it looked like he’d be the one on the hook. I’m not plannin’ to get them involved in operations. It’s just to keep peace between the big dogs. Look Tommy, the way I figure it, the Feds can’t make family testify against family, so tying the knot is good insurance.

Okay, it’s your call. Meaning, of course, it was Spats’ ass if the thing blew up.

And there’s always the Fifth Amendment.

Right. You got your crew lined up?

Pretty much. Couple of ex-cons who were a bit, um, reluctant? My associates put the finger on them and pressed a little.

Just make sure all the seams are stitched before the first shipment is ready to roll.

Spats looked heavenward. The graffiti-covered ceiling of the booth blocked the celestial view. Come on, Boss, give me some credit. Don’t worry, they’ll be more than stitched. As in hitched.

Very droll, followed by a brief pause, then, I’m counting on you Spats. Don’t let me down.

The phone clicked. Spats, pulling deep on his stogie, hiked to his brand new ’39 Packard, casting a long look at all her beauty. He groaned. His scar ached today. Some days, following the boss’s orders was the easy part.

***

Pa looked almost sad. But that mean smile lurking behind his squinting eyes, his scowling face, and white-knuckled fists announced the point of no return. Patsy’s life would change forever.

 I’m not going back to the big house, no matter what! he snarled.

Embers crackling in the kitchen stove punctuated the momentary pause. Patsy inhaled and looked her father straight in the face, shaking her dark hair, Well, I’m not marrying Rubin Miller, no matter what.

Pa clenched and unclenched his fists. Oh yeah? You best shut up and do as you’re told.

Mama, sitting in the corner, interrupted. Leo, what are you up to now? Her head tilted and she gave him a withering look, one dark eyebrow lowered.

Pa turned to his wife and switched to his trademark wheedling tone. For the last time, Lillian, this is part of doing business. We need the bucks. And if we can unload her on the Miller kid, we’ve one less mouth to feed. Plus, it gives me some insurance against that weasel Ray stabbing me in the back.

Patsy moderated her tone and pushed bone-framed glasses up her perspiring snub nose. You don’t have to worry about me hanging around forever. I’ll be more than happy to scrap the Schwartz name. But I prefer to choose my own husband.

Pa turned back to his daughter, Start getting your things together, young lady.

Marrying some soda jerk isn’t my idea of romance, she spit out through clenched teeth.

Pa pulled a silver flask from his back pocket, opened it, plied his lips to the screw top, and tossed his head back. His Adam’s apple bobbed. Looking back, he wiped his sleeve across his mouth. He’s a deputy sheriff. That’s plenty good for me. And you.

But Leo … Mama’s voice sounded irritated. An ashen log crashed in the stove behind the isinglass door liberating a frenzy of sparks.

Pa shook his head. She’s getting hitched this Saturday. He pounded his fist against the wall where a lone framed picture of a guardian angel shepherding two frightened children over a bridge, jumped and then tilted sideways.

We can’t throw a wedding together that fast, her mother protested. The whole town’ll be counting months. She folded her arms across her substantial bosom. What about the marriage banns? Father O’Malley won’t bless the marriage without a notice in the bulletin.

Pa lowered himself into a kitchen chair and drilled a fierce look into his wife’s face. What makes you think this shindig needs a blessing? We’re not messing with all that religious crap. A Justice of the Peace suits me just fine.

Out of the corner of her eye, Patsy watched her mother’s face blanch as she crossed herself and kissed her thumb. Without warning, Pa seized Patsy’s wrist, and pulled her up the stairs. She fought back with her free fist and dragged her feet. He climbed two steps at a time up to her bedroom, shoved her inside, and slammed the door. She heard the key turning in the lock and Pa’s heavy footsteps receding down the hallway.

Seething, Patsy pounded the wood door panel until the windows rattled and then flung herself down on the bed. She looked up at the calendar hanging on the wall over a small bookcase, notes scribbled in every available space in her generous flowing cursive. Exactly one week remained before the proposed wedding date. She jabbed a clenched fist at the wall. The calendar slid off a carpet tack and swished to the floor disappearing behind the bookcase. Three well-worn children’s books, standing on the case’s upper shelf, toppled to the side landing one atop the other.

Get a good night’s sleep, Missy! Pa shouted from the stairwell. You’re going to be busy between now and Saturday!

Patsy glared at the door. You’re right about that, you bastard, she whispered. But not the way you think. For a fleeting moment she pondered Pa’s demands. Could being married to Rubin Miller be any worse than staying here? Enduring this constant misery and the daily shouting matches? Her friends’ homes were calm, quiet places where reasonable parents resided. One thing was certain—when Patsy had her own family, home would be a happy place.

***

Water gushed in the rain gutter overhead. Patsy peeked through the wet screen on the open window of Virgie’s first-floor bedroom and rapped gently on the edge. Their family dog, Duke, barked from somewhere inside. Judging by the rattling, he must be pawing Virgie’s bedroom door.

A sliver of light from the hall reflected off the hardwood floor under the door. The knob twisted. Canine toenails clicked on the floor, and Duke poked his snuffling nose under the covers, prompting a sleepy groan.

Patsy ducked between the peonies and the damp, rough-hewn clapboards of the house praying that God would send Virgie’s mom promptly back to bed. Instead, she heard Mrs. Burg pushing the window down.

Virgie, how can you sleep through this ruckus?

Patsy heard a loud yawn followed by, Sorry, Mom. Guess I was really pooped.

Oh great. The rain’s come in. There’s a puddle under the window. Mrs. Burg padded away, her voice trailing off. I’ll grab a towel from the bathroom.

Peeking over the sill, Patsy found the window still open a few inches. She cupped her hands around her eyes to see in and pressed her face against the screen. Virgie, it’s me. Dukie thrust his slobbery nose against hers. He thumped his tail and whined.

Her petite friend stumbled to the window and tugged it upward, struggling to raise the sticky sash, whispering, Criminy, Patsy Schwartz, what are you doing here? The soggy frame groaned when she pulled on it a second time. A bolt of lightning illuminated Virgie in the window. In her nightgown, she looked like an angel, dark curls tumbling over her shoulders, as the shadows of rain rivulets decorated her image in a zebra pattern.

Patsy saw a shadow approach the bedroom doorway from the hall and crouched out of sight. Again the window squeaked down. The bed springs complained. Duke’s toenails tapped a staccato beat between the bed and the window, whining, snuffling, thumping his tail. Moments passed.

Mrs. Burg’s voice wavered. She must be wiping rainwater off the hardwood floor. Duke continued his chorus. Duke, hush up. Virgie, try to get back to sleep, dear. And please keep this goofy mutt quiet. Lord, he could wake the dead. Her feet slapped across the room, the door latch snapped, and the bedroom returned to darkness.

Patsy ventured another peek over the windowsill. Virgie lay still for a minute, then sat up and dashed to the window with Duke panting and drooling behind her. Hurry up! I’m soaked.

As Virgie pushed the sash up, she held a finger to her lips. The moment the light under the door disappeared, Virgie inched the screen outwards. Patsy tossed her knapsack in and then struggled to pull her ample bosom through the narrow opening. She managed to heft herself up to her waist on the open sill. Virgie tugged while Patsy sought traction with her toes against the siding. Finally, she landed with a thump on the bedroom floor bumping her crazy bone. Fortunately Virgie’s plush, slightly damp, throw rug softened the blow. Dukie wagged encouragement and licked Patsy’s face in welcome.

Shivering, Patsy caught her breath. Virgie glanced toward the door, motioning to her friend with both hands to keep quiet another moment. Then she leaned in close and asked, Are you okay?

Another bolt of lightning lit the room. Tears balanced on the edge of Patsy’s dark lashes and blurred her vision. Pa says I have to marry Rubin Miller.

Virgie brushed curls out of her face and looked at her with eyes wide. What? That’s ridiculous! Your pa can’t tell you who to marry. Especially a skinny, boney milquetoast that never says boo to anyone.

 Well, he did. She sat up, crossing her legs Indian style.

Virgie joined her. Oh, come on. You can’t be serious.

Oh no? Believe me, Pa’s very serious.

Dukie wiggled between them and Virgie patted his head. Why?

I don’t know. Something’s up between him and Miller’s dad. He yelled at Mama, hauled me upstairs, and locked me in my room. So I bailed out the window. She rubbed her sore elbow and dabbed at her scratched shins. It was a lot easier than climbing in here.

What if he catches you?

He won’t. I’m leaving town tonight.

Light from the street lamp cast a lemon glow over Virgie’s concerned face. Won’t that just about kill your Mama? Patsy met her friend’s dark eyes and then looked away. Virgie’s head motioned toward the window, where sheets of rain pelted the pane. There’s another problem. It’s raining to beat the band.

Patsy pushed soggy black hair back from her forehead and gripped her friend’s thin arm. Come with me. It’ll be like old times. Skipping school. Riding the bus to Hudson. The rain continued pinging against the window.

Virgie’s hands went up. Patsy, I can see why you wanna leave. She looked away. But I have to tell you, this is the most harebrained scheme you’ve hatched yet. Virgie’s eyes were dark as aubergine, her dimples heightened by the flashes from the storm, her brows drawn together. Honey, you need a better plan.

Better, like how?

Food, for instance. Money. Clothes.

I brought along some stuff to wear. I’m sure we can find work along the way to tide us over. Patsy stood, moved back to the window, and picked up her soaked duffle. Duke raised his head and perked his ears, apparently pleased to be having such an active night. Assuming the most forlorn expression she could muster, Patsy gazed back at Virgie. Virg, I’m desperate. For once in your life can you not be so darned practical?

Virgie rummaged in a drawer containing a jumble of stacked underwear, bobby socks and silk stockings. She tossed a pair of pajamas to Patsy and then climbed back into bed. She plumped her feather pillow, pulled the blanket up to her chin, and patted the flowered coverlet.

Virg, I thought you’d be a trifle sympathetic.

Her friend’s head tilted. How about we both get a good night’s sleep and work out a plan tomorrow?

Duke paced between the open window and the bed, until he finally plopped his chin on the coverlet and eyed the rumpled covers, as if waiting for an invitation to climb aboard. Patsy shivered, peeled off her wet clothes, and squeezed her five-foot seven frame into Virgie’s petite-sized pajamas. Virgie sat in bed, hugging her knees. Where you planning to go?

Hollywood. Maybe. She joined her friend in the spacious double bed. Look. You could hide our stuff behind the bandstand in the park and we could leave tomorrow night.

Virgie rolled onto her side, chin resting on her palm. Hmmm. Sounds promising. I s’pose I better tell Mom and Dad.

Oh God. That’ll spoil everything.

Ummm. I could leave a vague note.

I like that better.

Virgie rolled onto her back and yawned. Let’s get some sleep.

Patsy echoed her friend’s yawn. Mulling over Virgie’s reaction, she knew her friend was right. She started listing the flaws in the current plan—her soaked clothes, not packing a lunch for the trip, no money in her pocket. As usual, some of the details—better make that most of the details—threw roadblocks in her way. Good thing Virg thought of that sort of thing.

Patsy sighed. She thought about home. Pa, the iron-fisted disciplinarian. Mama, the peacekeeper. The entire family took his behavior for granted. And he took advantage of that and never relaxed his grip. Not through births, deaths, weddings, funerals, a stint in Leavenworth, even a world war. No one challenged his authoritarian rule. Her Pa, the boss.

Putting her head down to catch a few hours of sleep, she heard a moth flapping desperately against the screen. Virgie’s breathing buzzed around the room. Duke, having groomed his privates, heaved a satisfied sigh and nodded off in the corner. But sleep came slowly for Patsy. She simply couldn’t believe Pa thought he could just give her away like some farm animal. He was infuriating. She had to leave. She turned over and punched her pillow. Maybe, if she left, his behavior would improve. And she knew Mama’s heart would eventually bounce back. Blackie was tough enough. And Lorraine? Ha. She could more than handle Pa.

She drifted off relishing the thought of sweet freedom: no marrying some guy she hardly knew so he could slobber her with kisses and paw her private places; getting away from the abrasive authority of her big sister, and most of all, freedom from Pa.

***

Patsy felt dizzy, disoriented. She bowed before an audience’s tepid applause as she accepted the 1939 Academy Award for Best Actress. Flash bulbs flared. The footlights blinded her. Fame could be so intrusive.

Someone gripped her wrist. Turning to resist, a glowering Virgie pried the Oscar from her hand, her mouth stretched in a grimace. It’s mine. They struggled. Patsy felt weak, unable to move. Then she bumped her rump on the floor, jolting her from her dream. She looked up into Pa’s sneering face. Let go of me! I’m not getting married!

Virgie’s dad restrained Dukie, who barked and lunged at Pa. Leo, why don’t we fix a cup of tea and discuss this in a sensible manner?

Laughing, Pa shoved Mr. Burg aside and stomped to the front door, towing Patsy by the wrist. You’re going to marry who I tell you to marry. Now shut up if you know what’s good for you.

I hate you! Patsy screamed. Pa slapped her and dragged her along the sidewalk. Dawn bloomed in the east, backlighting wisps of smoke from chimneys. Curious faces appeared in neighbors’ opened windows along Hickory Street. Pausing, Pa picked her up and set her on her feet. They continued to holler at each other at the top of their lungs as he pushed her in front of him.

Once home, he pulled her up the back steps to her bedroom door. He opened it and tossed her in like a rag doll. Just a warning. I nailed the window shut. If you’re smart, you’ll hit the hay. Don’t make me knock you into next week.

She heard the key turn in the lock of her bedroom door and her father marching away.

***

Dazed, Virgie sat on the rumpled bed with Duke perched near the pillow still warm from Patsy’s head. His tail thumped when she ruffed his shaggy neck. He eyed the bedroom door and a growl rumbled from his throat. She heard voices down the hall. Her little brother, the Oblivious One, must have slept though all the action.

She sighed. Dukie, I hate to go. But I don’t have any better ideas. She looked in his trusting eyes. I can’t just abandon her. If I don’t tag along, she’ll be a dead duck. So mom must have been right about Patsy’s family having some problems. Regrettably, this’ll just reinforce her mom’s conviction that Patsy was a wild kid. Virgie knew much of that perception originated with the nuns at St. Mikes—not because of any true wildness on Patsy’s part, but because Miss Schwartz had a disturbing habit of questioning the dogma they handed down.

She climbed out of bed and tiptoed to the window. With the storm passed, the trees stood hushed and attentive, almost as if relieved to have survived another bluster. Well, Dukie, I better get packing. I’ll grab enough duds for a couple of days. She winked his direction. Things should blow over by then and I’ll be back. I promise. Honest injun.

Duke lay with his head tucked between his front paws, showing all the signs of drifting off into dreamland again. He briefly looked her direction, then closed his eyes.

Ignoring his snores, Virgie continued. Have to give her credit. She’s gutsy. Virgie shrugged and stroked Dukie’s head. He wagged his tail but snored on.

Virgie, opened her door to the hall and, looking both directions, tiptoed to the front closet, where she rummaged through winter boots, umbrellas, and her dad’s stuffed briefcase. She pulled out her little brother’s duffle bag, the one that he used for scout camp each summer. This’ll do. She untied the top flap, and upended it, dumping the contents. Out came an old sweater frayed at each elbow, two shriveled apples, and a waxed paper sleeve half-filled with limp soda crackers. The sweet fragrance from the fermenting apples filled the small room. A hefty jackknife clattered to the floor before she could catch it. She held her breath in the silence of the sleeping household and slipped it back in the sack.

On to the kitchen to raid the pantry. Gulp a swig from mom’s cooking sherry for fortification. Then to her piggy bank followed by a quick, vague note to mom and dad. And better take along her good luck charm—the St. Christopher’s medal her mother gave her last Christmas. She dusted off her hands. Tomorrow she and Patsy could scram.

***

Sunday, May 21st, 1939

Family and friends of the graduation class packed the gymnasium at Baywater High School which reverberated with tumultuous sounds of celebration. Honored guests, primarily parents of the graduates, occupied folding chairs in the preferred seating section on the gymnasium floor behind the graduates’ area. Everyone else sat in the bleachers lining the sides of the gym, perched like blackbirds on a high-tension electric wire. The heavy, humid, stale air smelled of sweat mixed with antiseptic cleaning solution used to hose down the adjoining locker rooms. The annual basketball tournament was over by several months but the now-rancid scent of buttered popcorn lingered. The crowd quieted when the seniors entered from the rear and began their stately procession toward the reserved section in front of the stage. Mr. Holts, the choir director, began playing Pomp & Circumstance on a mostly in-tune upright piano at one side of the stage. As soon as Patsy spotted her big sister Lorraine in cap and gown, she and Virgie slipped out of their seats at the far end of the bleachers, hopefully unnoticed by anyone significant in the crowd. They disappeared out a side door into the hallway.

Come on! Time to ditch this place.

Virgie pointed to the emergency exit sign over the rear door. We can’t go out this way unless it’s an emergency.

What do ya think this is?

Virgie grabbed her arm. But what if it’s locked?

Let’s try it.

They exited the school grounds with as much controlled poise as possible, turned the first corner, then stumbled along as fast as they could in their high-heeled pumps. The two limped into the city park off Main Street, heels sinking into the soft grassy ground, and retrieved their stuffed knapsacks from behind the band shell.

I can’t believe we’re doing this, Patsy sang as she made her way back to the sidewalk.

Virgie drew in a quick breath. Maybe we should spend our first night somewhere around here. But with Virgie’s words hanging in midair, Patsy hurried off and rounded the corner, turning east toward the highway, two blocks away. Virgie shrugged, and after a moment’s hesitation, followed her friend.

2

Directions

Sunday, May 21st, 1939

State highway 95 was a two-lane ribbon of asphalt running parallel to the St. Croix River along the border between Minnesota and Wisconsin. The road broadened through Baywater to accommodate diagonal parking in front of restaurants, bars, dime-stores, drug stores, and other commercial establishments in the heart of town. Patsy’s nascent plan, such as it was, involved traveling south on the state route for ten miles to its intersection with U.S Highway 12, a major east-west artery they could follow all the way to the west coast.

The girls hiked as briskly as their high heels allowed, but as afternoon faded into twilight, their progress slowed, deteriorating to a crawl. Patsy, leading the way while urging Virgie to pick up the pace, volunteered to carry both knapsacks. Virgie accepted.

Few people in Baywater had the luxury of owning a car so watching for familiar residents was easy. They ducked into bushes or hid behind roadside signs to avoid nosey neighbors driving past and blowing the secrecy of their big escape. Traffic zooming by sometimes ballooned their skirts, exposing bloomers. Gusts of wind blew stinging dust into their eyes and scoured their arms. Virgie complained like a broken Victrola record about aching feet. For the umpteenth time, she stopped, balanced using Patsy’s shoulder, pulling off one high heel, then the other, and dumping bits of sand and gravel onto the shoulder. Next she corkscrewed, looking at the backs of her legs to see if the seams of her silk stockings were straight. Smoothing them, her rough palms left minor snags. She mumbled under her breath, Should a never worn these stupid shoes.

Patsy gazed off to the darkening horizon and agreed, Didn’t think to pack any sneakers. Virgie glanced back toward home, so Patsy hurried on before her friend could suggest they turn back. The breeze, carrying scents of burgeoning peonies and fading hellebores, smelled like freedom. Patsy strode forward, knowing that reaching the federal highway, where the road to independence awaited, was crucial.

The dry gravel on the shoulder crunched beneath their tired feet. Darkness fell as they hiked to a stop sign and waited for oncoming traffic. They both held on to the sign to shake out their shoes one more time before crossing the pavement. Lights ahead from a small town on the horizon backlit trees that reached toward the sky. Patsy breathed a sigh of relief. They’d made it to the highway.

Jiggling headlights blinded her, leaving dazzling green ghosts in her eyes. She waved at each vehicle, pushing her knapsack into plain sight. She felt Virgie standing behind her and the closeness of her friend’s warm breath. Her voice carried in Patsy’s direction over the hum of approaching traffic which zinged past throwing gritty wind in their faces. Criminy, we’ve never hitched in the dark before.

It’ll be okay. A ride’ll be along any time now.

Eerie quiet settled for a minute. Then another set of headlights beamed over the hill. Patsy heard the engine repeatedly rev up and wind down as the driver stepped down through the gears. Dust preceded the tires as the tread grabbed the roadside gravel and the vehicle chugged to a halt. Virgie sneezed. Patsy smiled and waved.

The passenger window slid down and the driver shouted, Well looky here. You two girly-girls need a ride?

Yes, sir, Patsy said.

Where you gals headed? he continued over the chatter of the idling engine.

Wherever you’re going.

Great. The motor died. The driver’s door creaked open and an old codger crossed in front of the headlights. He wore a rumpled blue shirt and oil-stained pants. The top of his head came even with Patsy’s nose. She was used to towering over her schoolmates; she’d been the tallest girl in her class for years. Mama tried to ease her resentment by explaining that everyone in the family had large bones. However, towering over this adult man was a first. His spindly, tobacco-stained fingers reached for the door handle and lingered, as if caressing the truck. Meet Henry. A light knock on the fender reverberated. Hear that? Solid. He smiled. They smiled back.

The man stepped in front of them and opened the passenger door. He picked a thick book off the seat with one hand, pitched it to the driver’s side where it thumped on the worn upholstery, and then cranked the window halfway up. A familiar bitter whiff of stale beer mixed with body odor assaulted Patsy’s nose. The scent dragged her thoughts back home to bootleggers and the acrid odor of smoke from the still next door. She hesitated.

He motioned and said, Climb in and take a load off. Patsy placed her foot on the running board and slid in. Virgie handed up their bundles, grabbed the door handle, and pulled herself inside. Patsy saw the man’s steely blue eyes assessing Virgie’s ascending rump.

The door slammed, the man turned away, and stood motionless. Both heard a familiar sizzling sound. Virgie looked astonished. Can you believe it? He’s takin’ a whiz right in front of us, she mouthed, pointing out the window.

He could do worse.

A minute later, he strutted like a bantam rooster through the headlights plugging one nostril and blowing a booger onto the pavement. Virgie commented, Sheesh.

He climbed into the driver’s seat and said with a chuckle, Kind of a haul getting in here. Reminds me of my climb into the pulpit. Virgie looked sideways into Patsy’s face but said nothing. The engine ground back to life.

The driver lifted the hefty book wedged between them and tossed it into the space behind the seat. He shifted gears and they pulled back onto the road. An approaching vehicle honked. He muttered, peering between the dashboard and the steering wheel. Within minutes they were on a bridge crossing a wide river. Unnoticed on the far side, a dimly-lit billboard proclaimed, Welcome to Wisconsin, America’s Dairyland.

Without looking their way, the driver spoke up, I’m the Reverend Nehemiah Fosbusch from Omaha. Where you two from?

I’m Patrice Rogers and this is my best friend, Jeanne LaFontaine, Mr. Fosbusch.

Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Rogers. Mind if I call ya Patty? She shrugged at his quick glance in her direction. Where’d you say you’re from?

A long ways back. Been on the road for days.

The man’s eyes flashed above his handle bar mustache. Oh yeah? he snorted, don’t look to me like you been on the road all that long. His gaze returned to the road ahead, but he continued. You two look like smart cookies. Didn’t your Mama teach you to read the Good Book so you knowed right from wrong?

Sorry. We’ve been raised up Catholic. Catholics don’t read the bible. Maybe that would put an end to the sermonette.

What apostasy is this? Didn’t your papist folks ever get around to teachin’ you the Ten Commandments? As in, thou shalt not tell a lie? His mustache worked up and down. Admit it. You two clean, spiffy-lookin’ gals lit out on this adventure today. So repent of your sins and don’t try and fool old Nehemiah.

Patsy truly was a terrible liar. She thought of her mama saying, Patsy, don’t ever play poker or try to tell lies, cause the plain truth is written all over your face. She coughed and Virgie cleared her throat. They rode in silence. Again, Nehemiah spoke. That damn Vatican rakes in so much money from you short-sighted, simpleminded dummies. Bet you don’t even know where it goes. He chewed his lower lip.

Patsy shook her head. I have no idea. We don’t have much to give away, no matter who gets it. She glanced at Virgie who twirled her finger in circles at her temple.

I’ll tell ya where it goes. First stop’s a grimy-pawed priest, then on to a prick of a bishop. Next comes some grinning cardinal who grabs his cut then hands the rest to the whiney pope. What a deal! The truck swayed as their driver ranted. You’d think with that much dough, those tight asses could afford to hand out some free bibles. He reached behind him and groped for the book tossed there earlier. He waved it in her face. See this? This is what you should be reading instead of girly claptrap.

The words "Gideon’s Bible" were printed on the cover in glowing gold letters, while on the spine she read DO NOT REMOVE. Property of The Dew Drop Inn, Elk River, Minnesota, USA.

Patsy raised both brows and her eyes met Nehemiah’s. Scowling, he flung the bible back behind the seat. He gripped the steering wheel and returned to grinding his teeth. Virgie shifted her weight. Patsy glanced at her, rolled her eyes, and moved away from the sweaty arm steering the truck. Virgie nodded. Patsy turned back to the driver. We really appreciate your hospitality. Do you give rides to many folks?

Listen up, Miss Smarty Pants. What I do most of the time is preach the good word. This here driving job is just to get me through lean times. Miss Smarty Pants folded her arms and looked away.

Ever read the Book of Nehemiah? It’s Old Testament.

Sorry. Patsy wanted to stuff a sock in his mouth. She was tired of hearing testaments.

Nehemiah was a smart fella … sort of God’s right hand man. He rebuilt the fallen walls of Jerusalem.

That’s nice.

His head watched the road, but his monotonous mouth continued. When Nehemiah saw the enemy sneaking up, he told his men, ‘work with one hand on the wall and hold your sword with the other’. The man was a genius.

"Seems it would have been smarter for half of the men to build the wall and the other half guard. Maybe you could fit that into your next sermon."

Listen, Missy. I don’t mess with the printed holy word. What’s writ is what I preach.

Oh. They rode in silence again. Maybe when we get to North Dakota, we can stop by one of your churches and pick up a few more pointers on this bible stuff, she said, trying to reduce the tension.

Nehemiah snickered. You’re pickin’ a strange way to get to North Dakota. We’re going to Chicago.

She couldn’t believe her ears. Virg must not have heard so she gave her a poke. Virgie looked at her as Patsy said, Guess we’re going east.

What? Criminy! Leaning over in front of her friend, Virgie squinted at Nehemiah and shouted, Why in God’s name didn’t you tell us we’re going the wrong way?

Look sister, you got no beef. You didn’t ask me where I was headed. Your bossy friend here said you was goin’ the same place as me. So there, girly-girl. His eyes flashed in the dashboard lights. And another thing. You better apologize to the Good Lord for taking his holy name in vain. I picked you two up because you was good-looking gals. I thought we could have a nice friendly ride to Chicago. Maybe stop on the way for a little rest.

You lousy, low-down scum. Let us out! Virgie picked up her backpack and started rummaging. She pulled out her little brother’s scout knife and opened the blade. She reached in front of Patsy and flashed it in front of the preacher’s face, the glow from the headlights glinting off the shiny blade.

Nehemiah gulped and down shifted the gears, bringing Henry to a grinding halt. They popped the door and jumped out, dragging their knap sacks down. They stumbled in the loose gravel as they landed, grabbing each other for support. In the reflected light from the headlamps, Patsy glared at the man through the glass, giving him her best ‘thanks for nothing’ scowl.

He pulled away, shouting out the window, I hope you can see it in your wisdom, oh Lord, to forgive these sinners their transgressions. The dimming taillights receded over the next rise.

Even in the dim moonlight, Patsy couldn’t look at her friend. She shouldered her pack, and said, Well, there’s a typical man for you. Full of bull.

Virgie stood preoccupied, stowing

Reviews for Chasing the Strawberry Moon, Hitchhiking (for girls)

[eloquent_codex · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

An embellished memoir about a teenage girl and her best friend hitchhiking across the western U.S. during the summer of 1939 oblivious to the vital role she is suppose to play in her hometown’s developing money laundering scheme. Chasing The Strawberry Moon, Hitchhiking (for girls) is an elaborate memoir about coming of age during uncertain times. The historical context was masterfully showcased. The novel doesn't directly address the depression or coming war but there is this sense of foreboding that is echoed through some characters. Multiple characters provide different perspectives that help color the era in terms of lifestyle, status, priorities, and morals. The main character overcomes her naivete through meeting these other characters and contemplating her future. This profound historical social commentary was refreshing and felt authentic. The novel was arranged from interwoven story lines that created a well rounded story. The characters were intriguing and propelled the story into interesting directions. The setting descriptions were vivid and concise. The dialogue was appropriate for the time period and helped to further immerse the reader. Chasing The Strawberry Moon, Hitchhiking (for girls) is a wonderful story with interesting characters and themes that transcend time. [Disclaimer: I won a copy of this book through Goodreads First Reads]