A few months ago, I was listening to some Bob Dylan and remembering a bit of my childhood in the early sixties. At that time the memory of Kennedy’s assassination was still fresh in the national dialogue, the word beatnik was pop lingo, Andy Warhol was all the rage, and our new Rambler American was the talk of the valley.
Our town was in rural Vermont, picture postcard typical, and stuck in the fifties. We had a party line phone and a one room school house. I loved everything about it. My free time was spent exploring ponds and abandoned barns, climbing trees and reading everything I could get my hands on. When the LIFE or National Geographic magazines showed up, I was the first to consume them front to back.
One day a young couple moved into the abandoned general store next door and the sixties had arrived. He had long hair and bell bottom jeans and she looked like Ali McGraw (you’ll probably have to look her up) with long dark hair and the thick eyebrows that were popular as a more natural look. Picture rennaisance fair girl and you will know what I mean. Rumor had it he was an artist and they were remodeling the old store into a home gallery. My Mom told me to stay away, but my curiosity got the best of me. I had read about hippies, but had never seen one, let alone talked to one.
I watched their progress from the limb of a maple tree that stood between our homes. He would smile up at me and I would wave. Finally, when they were done, he waved me down and offered me a chance to see the inside. I was young, but smart enough to know great work when I saw it, and they had turned that old store into a beautiful home that would be all the rustic rage today. Then I saw something I had never seen before. Actually two things.
The first was his wife breast feeding. That was embarassing. Second, was an eight foot tall screen printing of Bob Dylan. I had no idea who it was, but I liked it. This started my on the job education in pop art and the movements of the sixties. He was a sculptist, so I spent time running the blower of his forge, gophering trash and tools, and listening to all of his hippie records. That time was special and an important part of my life, and I am eternally grateful to Peter for all he shared. My short story “A Little Bob Dylan” is a taste of that time. You can find it after “Hubcap Jones” on my stuff page. Of course the musical reference is “Blowin’ in the Wind”. Number 5 on the music player. Be cool.
words & worlds 