Trucker’s kindness vivid decades later

In 1963, I was 14 and one of four boys running away from home in Toledo, Ohio, to become surfers in California, probably a dream for many boys since the Beach Boys were popular then. I was escaping a miserable home life.

One of us returned home, but the rest continued. We slept in cornfields, walked mile after mile, cold and hungry. Then one late night in Indiana, on a dark two-lane road, a flatbed driver gave us a ride.

The driver, in his late 20s or early 30s, introduced himself with a big smile, “Hi, I’m Keith Ketchum!” When he pulled into a truck stop, he asked if we were going to eat. We declined, not mentioning that we were broke. Keith said, “Well, boys, you can have a spaghetti dinner on me.”

Words can’t describe how good that big plate of spaghetti and meat sauce tasted!

Keith was headed in another direction, but he gave each of us $2. For three penniless boys, that was a fortune then.

My first job was at a Toledo truck stop, where I put in oil, pumped diesel and washed windshields. I washed rims and looked over the rigs for details that needed attention, as if each rig belonged to Keith. My next job included changing tires at a Florida truck stop. After serving in the Marine Corps, I became a skilled tradesman.