A canvas backpack. A sleeping bag. A drinking cup that collapsed flat into a little case. Two matching wooden bowls, one for Dale and one for me. A combination fork and spoon. The spork. My teddy bear. Some clothes. A toothbrush. A small case, hand embroidered by my mother, to hold my "travelling papers." Pounds and pounds of homemade granola, made the night before and packed in plastic bags. Slightly burned. I remember what we packed for the journey. But what did my parents say to me when it was time to go--goodbye? See you soon? See you later? When the drivers slowed down to look at us, I tried to catch their eye. Sometimes I wiggled my outstretched thumb slightly, optimistically, and sometimes I tried to look sad and hopeful. Anything to imprint this scene in their mind: little girl sitting on a grey canvas backpack, young man with a guitar case, standing by the highway. Anything to slow them down until curiosity or sympathy made them stop. Everyone knew that a kid was better than a dog or a woman for hitchhiking. At the Sweetgrass commune, where me and Dale, my parents, and another dozen or so people lived, everyone pitched in, did their share to keep things going. This was something I could do. I was eight years old and already an experienced hitchhiker, a travelling partner for anyone who needed luck and company on the road. I'd also sung in the Sweetgrass band that played folk and gospel songs at old folks' homes and rock and roll at high school dances. I'd helped sell wildflowers, daisies and goldenrod and fireweed tied up in twine, to tourists in the city. But hitchhiking was the thing I did best. Up and down country roads into town, or the hundred-mile trip from Lennoxville to Montreal and back. I was Dale's plan to get west cheap and in a hurry. Dale was in his early twenties and from Los Angeles. He and another Californian played the lead guitars in the band. They'd helped start Sweetgrass, but Quebec winters and the winding down of the Vietnam War had them longing for home. His friend had already left with another commune member who was caught up in a custody battle for her baby. Dale and I were the second wave. My parents and a few others would be following soon. Behind us was Sweetgrass. Ahead of us was California and a new life. But in between was this long stretch of road. By day three I could feel Dale starting to wonder if this highway was more than my small charm could manage. We'd spent hours waiting to catch the next ride. I knew it didn't help to look too miserable or be crying. No one wanted to deal with that kind of kid. Instead I sat by the side of the road with my teddy bear and sucked my thumb, trying to look younger and cuter than I really was. To keep us entertained, Dale played his guitar and sang. He sang the Beatles and Dylan but the old country songs were my favourites. Take me home, my heart is heavy and my feet are sore Take me home, I don't wanna roam no more I liked that song, I liked the idea that what we were doing was roaming, and that when we got to California our roaming days would be over. Excerpted from Red Star Tattoo: My Life As a Girl Revolutionary by Sonja Larsen All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
