Hard to believe, but it’s been almost ten years since Jake Woods died. Never without his guitar, his hat, his colorful scarf, and whatever outfit he could find that outdid his scarf, “Shakey Jake” was a true Ann Arbor icon.

He couldn’t really play the guitar. It was more like a pair of pants, required to make up the outfit. Oh, he would strum it, sing a few lines, and pass the hat, but a musician he was not. A true and original character, however, he was.

He often slept on a friend’s couch. She was an early riser, but never did she find Jake in her living room when the sun rose. He was off with the first light, getting about his busy day. He had his favorite Main St. corner where his guitar case was always open. Inside it was his eight-and-a-half minutes of fame, a video produced by U-M students; “I Brake for Jake” T-shirts and bumper stickers; and a CD of him strumming the guitar, interspersed with his unforgettable voice.

To say it was guttural is a vast understatement. It had the tone of a piece of soft wood sliding over an eighty-grit piece of sandpaper. Jake was known for his short, no-nonsense statements, usually centered around his need to move on to the next important thing in his life. Was it reality, was he simply creating a story, was his head in the same place as his body? No one really knew, with the possible exception of Jake.

Like many people, I talked briefly with Jake on the streets of Ann Arbor. But our most memorable meeting was more than thirty years ago, about half an hour’s drive north of town.

Along the freeway a sudden blur appeared at the edge of the road. It was Shakey Jake in all his glory–guitar in hand, signature hat on his head–waving his thumb at the passing cars. The irony did not escape me. How could I not brake for Jake?

I slammed on the brakes, pulled over, and checked the rearview mirror. Jake was doing his best to run along the highway and close the distance between my van and himself. At one point, as the semis went screaming by, the backwash caught his hat and sent it careening into the weeds lining the road. He rushed over, bent down with a wince I couldn’t miss even in the mirror, retrieved his hat, and crushed it back on his head.

I leaned over and opened the door. Jake scrambled in, but not without a struggle–his well-traveled satchel, his guitar, and his hat all had to fit in the seat as well.

“Headed up to East Lansing for a gig,” he said in that unmistakable voice.

Jake had barely settled into his seat and I had just eased out onto the highway when I took a quick look in the rearview mirror. Yikes–it was any hippie’s bad dream. A police car was barreling down on my backside with lights blazing.

The cop waved to me to pull over. As I eased back onto the side of the road I glanced at Jake. His face showed no fear, no anxiety. To look at him, one might have thought we were getting pulled over by the ice cream truck.

The policeman asked me if I knew how I had broken the law. I replied, honestly, “No.”

“Well, first off, it is illegal to hitchhike on an expressway. Secondly, it is illegal to pick up a hitchhiker on an expressway.”

Then he looked past me and focused on Jake. I don’t think I imagined the slight look of recognition.

“Hello, officer,” came the gravelly voice. “I’m on my way to a gig in East Lansing, and I’m late.”

“You’re Shakey Jake, aren’t you?” said the officer.

“That’s me.”

“OK, I don’t want to see you on this highway with your thumb out again. You’re a danger to yourself and more importantly to others.”

“I’m hip,” Jake replied.

We were free to move on.