California, Here I Come - Part 2

There is a bit of a back story before going into what happened after Mary showed up at my door that day in 1970. It has to do with the Vietnam War, the draft, being designated 1-A, and the first year of “the lottery.” (Not the one that makes you rich.)

The previous fall, I believe it as in October, I received a letter from the Selective Service Administration telling me to report to the Springfield Office for a physical. A group of 50 of us, all residents of West Springfield, were taken by bus from the Post Office in center of town to the induction center across the river. The government supplied transportation. Thoughtful, no?

After the physical, and written tests, when we were told that we were free to go, I asked to speak to the officer in charge. I was told he had gone to lunch. So, I waited. He listened politely as I told him that regardless of what they decided today, under no circumstances was I going into the Army or going to Vietnam. His response? “Well, son if you feel that strongly, you probably wouldn’t be a good fit. You’ll find a way out.” Within days, the notice showed up in my mailbox. My new status? I was now 1-A.

That December the Selective Service instituted a lottery system in order to supply Robert McNamara and General Westmoreland with more bodies to send overseas, even as McNamara already knew it was a lost cause. He admitted so in later interviews. The man knew he was sending young men to fight and die in a war that couldn’t be won. Yet, he sent them anyway, thousands more. There should be a special room in Hell for a man like that.

Back to the lottery. Each day of the year was selected at random from a tumbler. It looked like a televised Lotto Drawing. Depending on which day you were born, that day was assigned a descending numerical value. I was born on August 14, the 198th date drawn. According to the Pentagon they were expecting to draft to 200. Uh-oh. As a result, I began to think about leaving the country and about joining the draft resisters in Canada.

(Last week, June 2026, while having lunch with my sisters Anne and Johanna, they told me that even though I had “run-off” with Mary, my parents and my Grandmother set up a fund to help me get settled if I ended up in Canada. This was news to me. They never told me. Again it goes to show what loving, forgiving parents I had. And, yes my father was a WWII veteran.)

So when Mary showed up that morning, I then had two reasons to head for Canada. I cashed my last paycheck, called work and told them I wouldn’t be coming in anymore, and went about packing as much clothing as I could fit into a large green military surplus duffle-bag. I called my friend George, and asked him if he would be willing to drive us to Montreal. Always up for a roadtrip, he consented. A few hours later we were on our way to Canada in his iconic turquoise VW Bus, leaving my apartment in the hands of two, very sketchy roommates.

We arrived in Montreal, at the Holiday Inn, the next afternoon. We were a sight: a frightened looking 17 year-old girl, and a 19 year-old, bearded hippie. We stayed for 3 days as I searched desperately for anyone who could tell me how to get in touch with the American Resistance. No luck.

One of my friends from Marquette had mentioned that his brother had gone to Toronto to “dodge” the draft. We took a train to Toronto. I really had no idea how to go about this. I tried “head shops,” record stores, any place that might offer me a clue. Nada.

I knew that if we stayed much longer we’d run out of cash, so I called a couple of friends from my previous year at Marquette University. “Sure,” they said, “Come on down! Someone will put you up.” So it was that after a week of fruitless searching, we were heading back to the States.

We flew stand-by from Toronto to Milwaukee and settled in at my friend Bob’s place. He was renting a small old house with his girlfriend and another student. Space was limited, but there was room in the basement coal bin. You read that right. It’s not quite as bad as it sounds. It hadn’t been to store coal in years., and the interior walls were painted white. We put a mattress on the floor. Home sweet, home.

We wasted no time trying to scrounge up some cash. We learned about a shady blood bank on the outskirts of Milwaukee, so we hitchhiked there. My blood type is A negative, a less common type, so it was worth $15 on the “blood market.” Mary’s blood type is AB negative, one of the rarest. She got $20. After recovering from the blood letting, we walked next store to a bakery and bought a green, chicken-shaped cake. It was almost Easter and we were feeling festive and flush. Not to mention the fact that we were ravenously hungry.