Pot, LSD, and Me

The film "Bobby" churned up my 1960's California childhood memories. The pages of a book would not hold the entirety of my remembrances and impressions of that decade.

One memory is the nightly news on television. From our suburban dwelling Dad watched that 30 minutes of, what to me was, horror. The Vietnam war raged with chilling scenes shown on the news. College campuses erupted in riots, sit-ins, and walk-outs, settled with police batons, rubber bullets, rocks, and tear gas. Bead wearing hippies in robes and sandals seemed to grow up out of the dirt. The generation gap widened. Pot and LSD were nearly everywhere, as were bombs, Make Love/Not War signs, and adults in suits or jeans who constantly screamed at one another arguing the answer to all of this. I remember seeing the street signs for Haight and Ashbury, that famous district where the unwashed and washed-out migrated, a place crawling with strung out people who seemed crazy and mad. Scary stuff to a little kid.

When the news wasn't on, my middle-class world was idyllic.

Another memory recalls a particular road trip. It was about 1967 and I was 11. We drove through San Francisco, across the Golden Gate Bridge, and on to Cloverdale to visit family friends in the country. After a refreshing, laughter-filled day, we got back into our dark blue Lincoln, the kind with the head lights that slanted outwards, matching the cat-eyed glasses my mom wore.

The drive across the Golden Gate was exhilarating for me, and crossing a second time in one day was no exception! It was so high! And the view! Mom and Dad were tense on the return trip. I think it was because there'd been a long line at the toll booth, and the sun was getting ready to set. Long tiresome day. Bickering ensued, over stupid stuff, the way it does sometimes. My sister sat in between our parents. I felt sorry for her. My older brother, black-rimmed glasses on his nose, sat next to me, and my older sister, bouffant hairstyle teased to perfection, sat next to him. I had a window seat on the left, behind Dad, who was driving.

Somehow, my street-smart father, who grew up in this part of California, became lost. Mom sniped. Dad reacted. We kids dummied up. The tension mounted, worse and worse, until, all of a sudden, we took a right turn and found the traffic stopped, in the middle of San Francisco. The car in front of us was creeping forward, but there were strange people wandering all over the street and the sidewalks. Three of them staggered towards our car! Two of these robe wearing men, with long dirty hair, crawled sloppily up onto the hood of our large vehicle, leaned their elbows and upper bodies on the windshield and stared at us. Curiously, within inches of my parents' taut faces, these bold hippies waved small clear plastic bags of what looked like oregano from Mom's spice rack. Dad said quickly, "Lock the doors! Windows up!" One loud click as all four doors were simultaneously locked. The windows were already up.

Mom and Dad froze, there was silence. The bickering stopped as hippies surrounded our Lincoln. Dad, who is 6'3", a tough guy, made funny noises in his throat, but didn't move. Mom white-knuckled the strap of her red purse. My grinning brother craned his head toward the glass to get a better view.

The third pouch-bearing hippie came to my window and roughly knocked on the glass. I remember that his eyes looked weird and his teeth were yellow and gross. I backed away. That's when I noticed the people on the sidewalk just outside my window. There were dozens of them, slumped in untidy mounds, like piles of luggage lying in heaps atop one another after being hurled from the summer camp bus. I thought the people were dead, but then realized some were waving their hands in odd ways in front of their faces, some were nervously talking to themselves, some were swaying quickly back and forth. I remember wondering if the concrete sidewalk was cold underneath them. I knew it was hard.

As Dad began to creep forward inch by inch, and as the hippies slowly rolled off the hood heading towards the car behind us, I looked out my window and up. That's when I saw it. The street sign. It said Haight and Ashbury! I stared in disbelief, my brown eyes wide open. The street sign from the news!!

"We are going to die!!"

But we didn't. Dad made his way, in silence, down the street filled with loud, dirty looking people wearing peace sign necklaces and peddling baggies full of pot, flashing us the two fingered peace gesture. As terrified as I was, the little rebel in me seemed to be born that day.

I held up two of my 11 year old fingers and flashed my first peace sign. One scruffy hippie girl smiled.

We made it home safely. The car unharmed; our parents friendly again. Everything went back to normal.

But I will never ever forget that 60's Haight-Ashbury experience from the backseat of a Lincoln, occupied by a staunch Republican, his straight-laced wife, his four sheltered, fresh-faced kids, and a yappy black poodle. It was enough to convince me that drugs were something I wanted to avoid, and hippies weren't that scary after all.

Groovy.