He was shy as a boy, tall and lanky with a heart of gold, his mom would say. His dad was strict but fair and always had the last word. His hair was cut by a barber, not a stylist, and his clothes were only replaced when a growth spurt seemed to happen overnight. His Mom would buy him blue jeans that had plenty of room to be rolled down as he grew. Little did she know that rolled-up jeans were all the rage. He remembered the day he went into school wearing what was called a Dickey. He saw it in a magazine and thought how cool it would be to be the first one in school to have one, but that wasn't the case. Dozens of boys began wearing them in all kinds of colors. Just another fad that diminished over time.
Time passed, and the lifestyle changed in many ways, including the rise of bell-bottom jeans and fringed shirts. Tye dyed everything, and peace signs were everywhere you looked. Book covers were plastered with stickers, and long hair for boys and girls was seen on almost everybody. His Dad strongly opposed the hair, but somehow Mom convinced him to let it go, saying he'd outgrown that fad, too. Eventually, it did pass as I was sworn into the Navy after high school and stood in line as ten Navy barbers made quick work shaving my head so short I looked like Mr. Clean.
More time passed, and I was discharged from the Navy, returning home to decide what was next for me. It was 1974, and the hippy lifestyle was still very much alive, something I had wanted to experience since getting a taste of it before my enlistment. With money I had saved in the Navy, I bought a van and tricked it out with a bed and a small fridge. It had a black light, posters everywhere, and a sound system that shook the windows. That first year, I traveled to places I had read about but never seen, like the mountains of Montana, with stars so bright you could read from their brightness.
I'd come upon others like myself in clusters, often joining them around a campfire where guitars filled the night air with song and joints were passed around until daylight broke through the darkness, and most were fast asleep until being woken by someone yelling the cops were coming up the mountain. It was a mad dash to gather your belongings and hit the road as quickly as possible. On one such occasion, I wasn't fast enough and was blocked in by the police and arrested for having weed in my van. They laughed among themselves at the ways we dressed and our long, sometimes braided hair done by a stranger around the campfire. And I didn't do myself any favors by calling them pigs and other choice names. I spent three days in jail and was released after the judge said it was my one and only time, and that he better not ever see me in his courtroom again. I was escorted to the county line by the oinkers and headed down the road to my next stop.
1977 and still on the road. I passed through dozens of small towns where the lifestyle remained a part of the culture, meeting many new friends along the way. I met a girl hitching and picked her up, asking where she was headed. She said her grandma had passed away and left he a cottage in the woods where she planned on living the simple life. I told her I'd love to see her cottage and offered to take her the five hundred miles to get there. We took our time, stopping along the road at places worth seeing, like giant waterfalls and redwood trees. Occasionally, other free spirits who lived in small towns and villages were more than happy to share a meal or a song.
We arrived at the cottage, set on several acres with woods and a small pond, and the peace and quiet we both loved so much. It needed some tlc but I was handy and offered to stay for a while and help her get the place in order. A while turned out to be six months, with a special closeness our hearts felt for one another. I took on carpentry work, and she sold herbs and spices to tourists passing through town. We were happy, and in time, we had a child we named Arrow. When we were target shooting with a bow and arrow, she went into labor, and we delivered baby Arrow in the bathtub, where the warm water soothed both him and his mom.
Many years passed, and the three of us made a good life together. We held on to our free-spirited way of doing things and taught our son the ways of the land and all who inhabited it. The old van finally pooped out and now serves as a modified chicken coupe, providing us with many eggs that we sometimes sell in town or trade for rock candy. I believe I speak for all of us when I say that happiness is a daily emotion we never take for granted. Love is forever, and freedom of choice is so much more than a lifestyle; it's who you are, and that's what's important.
More time passed, and I was discharged from the Navy, returning home to decide what was next for me. It was 1974, and the hippy lifestyle was still very much alive, something I had wanted to experience since getting a taste of it before my enlistment. With money I had saved in the Navy, I bought a van and tricked it out with a bed and a small fridge. It had a black light, posters everywhere, and a sound system that shook the windows. That first year, I traveled to places I had read about but never seen, like the mountains of Montana, with stars so bright you could read from their brightness.
I'd come upon others like myself in clusters, often joining them around a campfire where guitars filled the night air with song and joints were passed around until daylight broke through the darkness, and most were fast asleep until being woken by someone yelling the cops were coming up the mountain. It was a mad dash to gather your belongings and hit the road as quickly as possible. On one such occasion, I wasn't fast enough and was blocked in by the police and arrested for having weed in my van. They laughed among themselves at the ways we dressed and our long, sometimes braided hair done by a stranger around the campfire. And I didn't do myself any favors by calling them pigs and other choice names. I spent three days in jail and was released after the judge said it was my one and only time, and that he better not ever see me in his courtroom again. I was escorted to the county line by the oinkers and headed down the road to my next stop.
1977 and still on the road. I passed through dozens of small towns where the lifestyle remained a part of the culture, meeting many new friends along the way. I met a girl hitching and picked her up, asking where she was headed. She said her grandma had passed away and left he a cottage in the woods where she planned on living the simple life. I told her I'd love to see her cottage and offered to take her the five hundred miles to get there. We took our time, stopping along the road at places worth seeing, like giant waterfalls and redwood trees. Occasionally, other free spirits who lived in small towns and villages were more than happy to share a meal or a song.
We arrived at the cottage, set on several acres with woods and a small pond, and the peace and quiet we both loved so much. It needed some tlc but I was handy and offered to stay for a while and help her get the place in order. A while turned out to be six months, with a special closeness our hearts felt for one another. I took on carpentry work, and she sold herbs and spices to tourists passing through town. We were happy, and in time, we had a child we named Arrow. When we were target shooting with a bow and arrow, she went into labor, and we delivered baby Arrow in the bathtub, where the warm water soothed both him and his mom.
Many years passed, and the three of us made a good life together. We held on to our free-spirited way of doing things and taught our son the ways of the land and all who inhabited it. The old van finally pooped out and now serves as a modified chicken coupe, providing us with many eggs that we sometimes sell in town or trade for rock candy. I believe I speak for all of us when I say that happiness is a daily emotion we never take for granted. Love is forever, and freedom of choice is so much more than a lifestyle; it's who you are, and that's what's important.
Mike 2026
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