Adventures of a Yom Kippur Runaway

Fifty years ago in the summer of 1969, American youth shared in the cultural event of the 60’s, Woodstock. The cult-like audience experienced firsthand what a whole generation was searching for: peace, love and happiness.

Fifty years ago on the day of Yom Kippur in 1969, I was an American youth of 15 who ran away from home. I also experienced firsthand what a whole generation was searching for: freedom, independence and self-identity.

But on Yom Kippur? Of all days, why run away on Yom Kippur? Was it the ultimate form of parental rebellion to leave home on the holiest day of the year? Was it rejection of my religion or my heritage? Was it a direct message of God? I don’t really think so. At the time it just seemed the smartest day to leave. I figured if I could get out of going to all-day services, I could get a whole day’s jump on my flight to freedom.

Why run away? At the time, it wasn’t all that clear, but I still believe it was essentially necessary. I remember catch phrases echoing in my head: “I’ve got to find a better life. There’s got to be more than just this.” “There was this girl and it didn’t work out.” “No one told me about emotions…about love…and pain.” “My friends were pushing me into drugs.” “I had this little incident at camp….I took too many aspirin…I was a little depressed.” I just knew I had to get away. Yom Kippur was as good a day as any.

After attending the Kol Nidre evening service with my family and returning home, I retired to my bedroom. I remember listening to the words of Simon and Garfunkel’s “I Am A Rock, I Am An Island” as I packed my suitcase complete with alarm clock, bar mitzvah suit, Rod McKuen books of sappy poetry and a bathroom kit. No one had instructed me that a sleeping bag might come in handy on a cold night.

As I crudely drew a sign with the word “North”, I fantasized about my future life in some small town where I might find a quiet job as a shy, sensitive salesclerk in a quaint, used bookstore. There I would be left alone to read, to think, to wallow in my emotional numbness.

It was around 6 a.m., Yom Kippur morning when I scotch taped the note on my bedroom door: “I don’t feel very well. Go to temple without me.”

I figured if everything went according to plan, they wouldn’t even know I was gone until they returned later that night to break the fast. With a total cash supply of $8.70, a plastic bag stuffed with several slices of bread, my crudely scrawled “North” sign and my suitcase, I quietly snuck out of the house and walked several miles to the freeway on-ramp to Highway 101.

Needless to say I missed the “Shacharit” morning service. By early afternoon, I was well up to mid-California. Many rides, same question. “Where you going” “North,” I’d reply. They stared back blankly. Hitchhiking conversation wasn’t very deep.

It was right outside Gilroy on a rural part of Highway 101 that I waited once again with my thumb held up proudly in the air. I watched as a car going the other way hit the brakes, swerved around, and started towards me. I froze as the car pulled up and a young man in military garb shouted out, “I’m AWOL, this car is hot, and I ain’t got no money or clothes ‘cause I just broke out of the brig. Where you going?” “North,” I replied as I opened my suitcase and offered him my bar mitzvah suit. He picked out a T-shirt and jeans instead. “Got any money for gas?” he asked. I gave him half my fortune (a little over four bucks) and a slice of bread. I was too afraid to ask what AWOL was as I climbed into the stolen vehicle.

As we traveled less than a quarter of a mile, I remember we went around a mountain bend right smack into the sun. Beyond the glare of light stood a trio of hitchhikers, a male, a female and a dog. My driver stopped and immediately broke into his rap. “I’m AWOL, car is hot, just broke out of the brig…” “So?” they shrugged as they hopped into the back seat. They were returning from Woodstock where they had had this “far-out” time at this “far-out” concert with million of “far-out” people. They looked cheerful, rugged, wise, free and easy. They were themselves. I wanted to be part of this new generation.

Our military escapee decided to go into hiding in Berkeley, so the trio and I continued hitchhiking north onto Interstate 5. My companions were experienced travelers. Harry must have been in his early 20’s and had hitchhiked across the country about seven times. He was headed up to Tacoma, Washington to crash out for awhile in a house in which he owned a forth share. Sarah was in her late teens and she and her dog, Peace, were heading back to her mom’s in Portland after being on the road several months.

I was lucky they took me under their wings.

From thin bologna sandwiches to 15-cent cans of sardines, from bumpy, late-night car rides to tanning in the back of a pick-up truck, from sleeping on the floor of a bug-ridden motel room to sleeping in the car on the bug-ridden dog, we made it up to Portland in two and half days later. There Harry and I bid a fond farewell to Sarah and Peace.

Harry asked again where was I going. “North…” I slowly dribbled out the word I had said numerous times the past three days. “North…” Harry said I could stay in his one fourth of the house in Tacoma until I figured out where “north” was. We made it from Portland to Tacoma in a matter of hours.

Eight miles before our destination outside Tacoma, we had a close call. It was about 2:00 a.m. and an older guy in a pickup truck gave us a lift. He had an open bottle of beer and offered us a swig. As we swigged and proceeded a mile or two, a red light went off. The cops! The beer! The drunk! The 15-year-old runaway!!! Me!!! Our drunken driver sobered up quickly and reached down below his feet. He quickly grabbed the bottle of beer and brought it to the ground. “Drilled a hole in this old mama decades ago. Done poured out more hooch than piss though the last couple of years.”

The patrolman suspiciously stared at the old man’s license as he waited approval and verification from headquarters. It was a tense few moments as another patrol car joined the scene. Finally, word came in. No outstanding warrants. We were free. Just then the patrolman shone the light directly in my face. “How old are you boy?” “I’m 19, sir.” I couldn’t see his reaction as the lights blinded my sight. Had I traveled several thousand miles over three days to have such a downer ending as this? He turned the flashlight suddenly off and gently said, “Go home kid.”

I did go home…after shacking up 10 days with an unusual group of people. They took good care of me and gave me the air and space I needed at the time. They must have been patient. They even drove me to a job interview at a lumber mill where I thought maybe my calling was chopping down trees. They lived a different lifestyle. The basic essentials were the records and the stereo, the pot in the cupboard and the LSD in the freezer. They definitely weren’t into Sinatra. It was after a night of hallucinating and intense looking inwardly that they helped me decide to call my parents and return home. It was concluded that the place for a confused 15 year old was probably at home…or at least in therapy.

Fifty years ago this Yom Kippur…

Yom Kippur is a day for asking forgiveness. For those I hurt years ago, I ask forgiveness.

Yom Kippur is a day when some individuals’ fates hang in the balance; please remember those that lent a hand to this 15-year-old kid.

And Yom Kippur is a day for shedding one’s old skin, to be able to being anew,

On this Yom Kippur, I hope to re-examine myself, my life, my values, as closely as I did when I was young. If I have gathered bad traits, or been insensitive to my fellow beings, I hope to shed off the old skin and once again begin anew.

After all, even after running away from God, Jonah got a second chance.

---Mark Lazar

This article was originally published in The Los Angeles Jewish Journal in fall 1989 and republished in The Queens College Journal of Jewish Studies, Spring 2010, Volume XII.