We had long hair and smelled of patcouly with a whiff of pot. We listened to our own kinds of music that filled us with peace and harmony. And we danced. Lord, did we dance around the campfire on star-filled nights when fireflies lit up mason jars and moved to the beat of a Dylan song.
We shared rent costs among the six of us who tried their luck at higher education, but daytime was for sleeping, and the night brought opportunity on the streets where college kids sat in the park, the lofty smoke of a hash pipe filling the calm air. We had a pusher who kept us stocked up with weed, hash, and my favorite mescaline. And on a night when a concert was in town, we sold out in less than one hour. On a night like that, it was normal to sell $ 1,000 worth of product, and after our investment, we cleared about $700.
Our house was old, and many repairs were needed, but the landlord was a stingy old man who looked and smelled the other way. He lived next door and could often be caught with a spyglass peering into a bedroom window where all too often a fine young lady stood naked at the window blowing him a kiss as she lowered the blinds.
When we heard an outdoor concert was being planned in the hills of a beautiful valley, we purchased a lot of party favors that, in the end, netted us over $3,000. Of course, we saved some for ourselves, and on the eve of leaving, we six dropped some magic acid that took us places we never could explain. Trees with limbs that danced and sang to you from a knothole, which appeared to be a mouth. No flying monkeys, but plenty of distorted bodies clinging to each other as reality began to set in, and sleep took over as the campfire burned out, and sleep had to follow.
We loved our lives and the changes it brought along, like buckskin jackets beaded with love from one of the girls. Headbands and colored beads were worn around our necks and draped from clothing. A common sight was a girl braiding her boyfriend's long hair or a lone guitarist banging out a song he had written about this place. There was a freedom we cherished as the people below the hills carried on with a life programmed into their souls from an early age of obedience.
As years passed, bands of people left for reasons known only to them. Loading their vans and ancient school buses, hoping it would make the journey and not be added to the other old vehicles ending in a hollow, forgotten forever. At that time, in the blink of an eye, time ran, not walked, down the hills and into a lifestyle few wanted to return to. The old house burned to the ground, the old landlord blaming it on our constant smoking of one thing or another, and the dozens of candles used for all the light we wanted.
Some of our mighty six went on to school, some far away, while others took their message of peace and love to the masses, who responded just as he knew they would. Communes were built as safe havens for the odd and the strange, all with a dream of being who they were, not what they were expected to be.
I joined the Navy, a choice between jail, and I chose the Navy. I didn't cry when they cut my hair, but inside I wept, remembering my girl braiding it as she hummed a Carole King song. Now, nothing but another pile of lost manes on the barber's floor. We all dressed the same, ate the same, worked the same, and left it to me to find a way to provide party favors upon request.
For two and a half years, I did the navy thing, hiding my hair inside my cap, loaded with butch wax to hold it down. On my last time leaving the ship, I took off the cap to the cheers of the sailors on the deck. My hair fell several inches, and by all accounts, I looked somewhat as I remembered it all those years ago. I bought a Harley and strapped on a bedroll and other supplies, then headed for the hills I loved so much.
I'm in my later years now, and my memory of those beautiful times and of the people who never wanted anything more than to live in peace among themselves is gone. I suppose I'm the last survivor of the magic six. Standing on top of the hills looking at them in all their glory and beauty, I fire up a hand-rolled joint and inhale the sweet smoke rising into the air as a distant voice shouts out, " Don't bogart that joint, man, pass it along. Happy to, brother, happy to.
Mike 2026
Our house was old, and many repairs were needed, but the landlord was a stingy old man who looked and smelled the other way. He lived next door and could often be caught with a spyglass peering into a bedroom window where all too often a fine young lady stood naked at the window blowing him a kiss as she lowered the blinds.
When we heard an outdoor concert was being planned in the hills of a beautiful valley, we purchased a lot of party favors that, in the end, netted us over $3,000. Of course, we saved some for ourselves, and on the eve of leaving, we six dropped some magic acid that took us places we never could explain. Trees with limbs that danced and sang to you from a knothole, which appeared to be a mouth. No flying monkeys, but plenty of distorted bodies clinging to each other as reality began to set in, and sleep took over as the campfire burned out, and sleep had to follow.
We loved our lives and the changes it brought along, like buckskin jackets beaded with love from one of the girls. Headbands and colored beads were worn around our necks and draped from clothing. A common sight was a girl braiding her boyfriend's long hair or a lone guitarist banging out a song he had written about this place. There was a freedom we cherished as the people below the hills carried on with a life programmed into their souls from an early age of obedience.
As years passed, bands of people left for reasons known only to them. Loading their vans and ancient school buses, hoping it would make the journey and not be added to the other old vehicles ending in a hollow, forgotten forever. At that time, in the blink of an eye, time ran, not walked, down the hills and into a lifestyle few wanted to return to. The old house burned to the ground, the old landlord blaming it on our constant smoking of one thing or another, and the dozens of candles used for all the light we wanted.
Some of our mighty six went on to school, some far away, while others took their message of peace and love to the masses, who responded just as he knew they would. Communes were built as safe havens for the odd and the strange, all with a dream of being who they were, not what they were expected to be.
I joined the Navy, a choice between jail, and I chose the Navy. I didn't cry when they cut my hair, but inside I wept, remembering my girl braiding it as she hummed a Carole King song. Now, nothing but another pile of lost manes on the barber's floor. We all dressed the same, ate the same, worked the same, and left it to me to find a way to provide party favors upon request.
For two and a half years, I did the navy thing, hiding my hair inside my cap, loaded with butch wax to hold it down. On my last time leaving the ship, I took off the cap to the cheers of the sailors on the deck. My hair fell several inches, and by all accounts, I looked somewhat as I remembered it all those years ago. I bought a Harley and strapped on a bedroll and other supplies, then headed for the hills I loved so much.
I'm in my later years now, and my memory of those beautiful times and of the people who never wanted anything more than to live in peace among themselves is gone. I suppose I'm the last survivor of the magic six. Standing on top of the hills looking at them in all their glory and beauty, I fire up a hand-rolled joint and inhale the sweet smoke rising into the air as a distant voice shouts out, " Don't bogart that joint, man, pass it along. Happy to, brother, happy to.
Mike 2026
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