Psychedelic summer

I was fifteen during the summer of love. People hitchhiked across the country, guys wore their hair long and seldom wore shirts and shoes ushering in the now well known "no shirt, no shoes, no service" signs that are so prevalent in store windows today. Girls wore skirts so short that little was left to the imagination with halter tops that knew no bras. Life was good.
It was an uneasy time for the country and most cities and little towns saw a fourfold increase in their police force. In my own little hamlet that consisted of four little towns rolled into one, we saw a ten o'clock curfew on anyone under eighteen.
Color was an integral part of life. Black light posters, Tye dyed shirts, brilliant colors from every part of the spectrum became the colors of our freak flag flown high. Marijuana was the buzz of choice. Colt 45 was the second.
TV taught us through such shows as The man from U.N.C.L.E. and Mission Impossible how to dress in black and move amongst the shadows of the night.
My father had to be up every morning before 4:30. In order for us to obey the law, we had to be in by 10:00. And we were.
But soon after the lights were out we were in secret agent mode; ready to roam the night. My buddy Al and me would most often borrow the bikes of some neighbors that lived several streets away. We could ride all over creation and have a hell of a time but we always returned the bicycles to their rightful owners. We learned to squat like shrubs when the police cruisers came by when we found ourselves on foot. We walked the circumference of trees while the police were just on the other side. It was hard to keep from laughing.
One evening as I tossed pebbles at Al's bedroom window to let him know of my presence, I saw his father get up from the table and leave his imperial quart of Narragansett beer to investigate. I nestled up to the house foundation and lay myself lengthwise in an effort to remain undiscovered. His father stood less than a foot from my head and surveyed the yard. Finding nothing, he retired back to his glass of beer and the solitude of the kitchen table. Al soon met me outside and we were off and running.
But we were all too aware that the draft was looming over our heads as we began to see the end of high school on the horizon. My cousin Bobby was in Nam' and my brother was stationed in Germany. Having zero confidence in the likes of Nixon/Agnew it was difficult to think of serving your country for a GOP that thought only of advancing the corporate elite in the world market. Fighting the growth of communism to enable the continuing growth of capitalism seemed a poor excuse for getting your ass shot off. My old man would not be better off for it. My little town would not be better off for it. For chrissake, only Wall Street might profit from my blood. No one else. Freedom! Yeah. Sure. Sell me a bridge in Brooklyn.
But the toll was stacking up all over. Drug overdoses. Drunk driving crashes. Escalating returns of the wounded and the dead from the war front. The turmoil was real. The police only knew how to react with brute force. Every policeman feared that the blacks would forever hold them responsible for the assassination of MLK The Democratic convention saw the police hit first and ask questions later; often asking with more force.
Fuck all this crap. I'm just going to have fun.
Ah, the joys of young love. I mean, ahem. Sex.
Good mellow pot.
Sunsets at the sand pit.
Sometimes I wish for innocent sex. Mellow pot. Good sunrises and sunsets.
Don't you?


Mike Golch said…
yeh buddie!
Sorry, that's never been my style. I did enjoy reading your post, though.