Section VII
2022
Marin County Satori d av e d e i n n o c e n t i s
M
ay 1968, our Bobby is all in, he’s going to end the Vietnam War, maybe end racism and injustice and inequality on the way by, he needs to win California, he needs help. And I’m free. I grab my least worn shoes, roll up the old Korean War surplus sleeping bag, hustle up a few bucks and head for the turnpike at Mass. and Newbury, thumb out and heading west. A week later, and adventures including being escorted outside of Ogallala, Nebraska by the sheriff onto a gravel road alongside some long deceased decomposing cattle, otherwise known as the local hitchhike-free zone, a job offer in Mountain Home, Idaho, to help bring in the spring calves from the back country, withdrawn after I confess I can’t ride a hoss, never mind pronounce it, I’m on a jungle road somewhere near Mendocino when The Cheech and Chong Prototype Wagon pulls over populated in the back by a local tribe of semi-dressed young pilgrims, in front by a big, bearded guy opening the door and luring me inside with an engaging grin. They’re all trucking their way to a commune, and I seem to be invited. That evening, a campsite. After a memorable dinner of hippie potluck-au-few, I become allied with the big guy, an affable and still and mellow and gentle dude and the only other person in this outfit reasonably evolved, who tells me he lives in Haight-Ashbury, is travelling to visit a woman friend, and is a good listener who wants to hear about all the affairs and exploits of being on the road. In an authentic Lowell accent. At dusk he becomes very spirited, tells me he’s discovered a plant growing near the campsite, you can make tea from the leaves and get buzzed. I’m dubious. It looks like ordinary mountain laurel to me, but he steeps the leaves in creek water, pours the liquid into a cup, and offers it forward. Gentleman that I am, I say, “You first.” He brings the cup to his lips, drinks it down in one swill. His eyes immediately roll back in his head, he collapses into the creek, head bleeding from a rock, face under water, mouth bubbling. He’s no lightweight, but I drag the fool out, make sure he doesn’t choke on his vomit, clean the forehead gash, oversee the slow return to lucidity. Later, lying among the redwoods, I realize I’ve probably just saved my new scruffy-bear friend from drowning. Sunrise, minus a few defectors, and we arrive at the commune. The big guy has a joyous reunion with his lady friend who seems to run the place, and in time we have a great endless softball game, Marin County Rules, with a goat playing third, some stoners in center, a few naked girls in left, a sheepdog the designated runner for both sides, and of course, under local rules, both sides win. After a farm grown dinner there’s a bonfire, instruments come out, the big guy grabs a guitar, someone hands me a tambourine. Even a sax materializes. Music envelops the hills and we’re singing about Love Lights and Letting It Shine and maybe The Lowell Review
151
