It was March and we were running from Milton, Wisconsin, and the US Army, currently driving through Detroit on our way to Toronto. When I look back at those two people I’m amazed by two things: one, how I expected Andy to drive and brave the bullets or whatever else I imagined flying at us from this city on that night in 1969 — so fearful that I hid under my big, old, $5, Salvation Army, muskrat coat in the back seat; and, two, our unspoken agreement that he was my saviour and I needed saving. I was almost 22 years old.
Even though I’d lived away from home since I was 18 and worked and rented my own place since I was 19, I was now ready to be married (cared for by a man for forever). And if this guy was dodging the draft and wanted me to go with him to Canada, so be it.
I think he liked having someone else to be responsible for — he liquidated the gift of an investment account from his father, for us; in the blizzard between Detroit and Toronto that night he wired some cable under the car to get us back on the road and keep us from freezing to death; and later, once we’d safely reached the other side, he worked in a hospital kitchen as a dishwasher to pay our bills.
He was a hero and I was safe.
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