In 1947 my brother and I hitchhiked to Cleveland Ohio from Los Angeles with my father.
He was a writer always working on the "great American novel" and he also wrote a weekly column for a "Negro" newspaper in LA. Where ever we were he'd find the postoffice and mail his travel column off. I came across one of these columns recently and learned we arrived in Cleveland with 47 cents "in our jeans". I read how lonely he was and how afraid as we tramped through snow and wind without a ride in sight.
I remember even at its harshest how protected I felt on this trip and though my father was trying to find us a home I never was looking for anything more than I had right there with him. (here's a photo of my brother and me in Texarcana, Arkansas.)