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My brothers had staged a frame-up, called dispatch, and sent me sent to jail. Mom was in the hospital so it was their chance.
As we left the property where I'd been living with Mom for 3 ½ years, a sheriff's deputy handed me an old paint-spattered leather jacket and a pair of shoes from the house. I said I didn't know whose shoes those were. They were very large, and no match for anybody who had ever lived there.
On discharge from jail, it was sundown, January, high desert central Oregon. It was getting cold. I had no money, no phone. I had to start walking. Home was 14 miles distant. These shoes were too large for my feet.
I kept walking. It was all I could do. I stuck my thumb out for any traffic. I slipped court papers into the shoes, trying to partially fill the space.
I walked most of the way, hitching for about 1/3 of the distance in a classic Ford F150.