(continued from previous)
Thank God. I didn’t know there could be life without riots. I didn’t know there could be life without political assassinations. I didn’t know there could be life without scenes of war on TV. ‘Back to nature’ sounded really good, as if I’d been on the verge of a nervous breakdown or something the whole time at the ripe old age of twenty-two. We were the late 20th century cabin-dwellers. We were the FoxFire generation, looking for our roots in root cellars, attics, and storage sheds. We wanted the past not the future, evolution not revolution. We wanted little to do with cities, wars, hard rock, or hard drugs. We wanted real folk, bluegrass, and cosmic cowboys. We wanted our ganja as much as ever, maybe more, but no excess acid for a weak stomach, thank you, and for God’s sake, heroes and not heroin.
We didn’t really want jobs, but there weren’t any extra real jobs available for us baby-boomers anyway, so it didn’t really matter. We wanted arts and crafts; we wanted to do carpentry; we wanted to plant crops and raise goats. We wanted to go skinny-dipping at midnight in lakes formed by flooded limestone quarries. We wanted to go to Mexico. So that’s what we did. We ‘went native’ in every way possible. We ate health food and dressed in native costume and spoke Spanish. We held on to our youth as long as we could. That’s what it was all about, really, a country coming of age, finding itself in the morass of circumstance. Back then I never had much of a grip on anything but my d*ck anyway. Fortunately youth can cover a multitude of sins. By definition old age is ugly and youth is beautiful. You try to hang on to it as long as you can.
(to be continued)