BLOOD AND DAFFODILS — THE 60'S
Chapter 14 of 17
In the Spring of 1968 we got a bumper crop of daffodils in the San Lorenzo Valley.
They popped up in every field and meadow from Boulder Creek all the way down to Santa Cruz.
That Winter had been a doozy. The torrential rains pounded the mountains like a jack hammer.
As I recall we got 85 inches of that year.
The tops of the valley were crowned in an ancient redwood forests and those big old trees just sucked all that rain up like an empty sponge. When they had quenched their thirst rivers of water swooshed down the valley like a freight train.
On one of these stormy evenings I was with some friends that had a cabin on the river.
We were getting stoned and hearing the Beatles White Album for the first time.
“ Blackbird singin’ in the dead of night take these broken wings and learn to fly, all your life you have just been waiting for this moment to arise.”
That song in concert with the rain beating out its furious tattoo on the roof of that cabin will be my memory for all time.
I was torn out of my reveries by the sight of a VW Bug being carried in a torrent of water that rumbled and roared as it churned by the cabin.
The little car had apparently lost its footing from the swollen river shore and was taking it’s final trip to the mouth of the river that lead out to the stormy Pacific ocean.
We had to check up with each other to make sure we were not having delusions.
In a while we returned to music and camaraderie as the late afternoon was being vanquished by the onset of evening as it began its slow descent down the valley floor.
It was then that one of the guys pulled out a plastic bag from his kit. It contained two small tabs of acid. There were seven of us so we divided the booty and let it melt on our tongues.
Within an hour I had a slight buzz on as I continued to wander through the voices and lyrics of the Fab Four.
We were in the shank of the evening when someone declared “ Road trip!”
With that we piled into what we called “Vivies voluptuous vulva.”
My friend Vivian had an old egg shaped Volvo that happened to be robins egg blue. It had come off the assembly line sometime in the mid fifties and by the time Vivi got it the poor old thing was being held together with rust, duct tape and hope.
Somewhere in the Cartesian logic of our rainbow brains we thought it would be a good idea to tool down to Santa Cruz to see The Beatles Yellow Submarine.
In the middle of the torment we flew down the twisty, turney surface of Highway 9 as Gods and angels danced before our eyes.
The movie was amazing.
Peter Max drew us into his psychedelic world as The Beatles voices rang out Magical Mystery Tour.
We were in that place of big magic as we sat huddled together in that small dark theater.
That same soggy winter my good cowboy boots got covered in green mold and slime. I had to throw them out. Those were my favorites. They were Red leather Tony Lama’s that had discovered at The Goodwill Store in Santa Cruz for $5.00.
Good God, what an awesome find those red shit kickers were!
After that disaster I was keening for spring.
And so, after four months of intense rain the sun came out and brought with it huge quantities of white and red dogwood blooms. The fragrance of bright yellow mustard flowers, highly scented roses and sweet smelling hyacinth filled the air.
The daffodils reigned in their bright yellow profusion.
It was like living in a butter churn in the middle of Eden.
My friend Phyllis and I picked armloads of those yellow treasures and put them in our living spaces and anywhere else we could find a flat surface that would accommodate an old glass jar.
Spring had really come.
Her bawdy skirts were billowing everywhere and Phyllis and I were going to make the most of
On June 5th 1968 we invited our friends to gather on the edge of creek in celebration of mother natures burlesque show.
About 25 people came and the gaiety began.
We all brought food, beer, rotgut wine and other essentials to further alter our mutual consciousness.
Rockin” rhythms were provided by some folks that had brought guitars.
There was a woman who brought her bright silver flute. Phyllis and I sang interweaving harmonies above it all as the day turned into night.
The evening wore on and people started drifting away around 11pm.
The group had whittled down to two guitars and the flute player, Phyllis and I.
In a state of happy exhaustion we finally wended our way back to our rooms and homes.
The last thing I heard were the haunting notes of the flute playing. That shimmery silver sound disappeared into the shadows of the sweet silent night.
I had crashed at Phyllis’s cabin and in the late morning we awoke to hear raised voices and crying coming from across the creek at the old Brookdale Lodge.
The old two story had become the refuge of about ten hippies who were more than happy to have this antique shelter.
Phyllis and I walked across the flat rocks of the creek over to the lodge to investigate what was happening.
That was when we got the news of yet another tragedy from the world that lived out there.
Robert Kennedy had been assassinated in Los Angeles the night before.
A couple of my friends had worked on his campaign back East and they were devastated, as we all were by this heartbreaking loss.
All I could think was “ Why are they killing our hero’s? Who are these cruel inhumane fiends?”
Beyond that thought I went completely blank.
As the news spread we all started to migrate to the sanctuary of our creek. We came together to cry and mourn the loss of this good and great man.
There was a combination of silence from some and for others unstoppable sobbing.
Those salty waters and snot drooled down our faces without surcease.
As the gloaming of that tragic night approached we brought out arm loads of daffodils which we threw into the water of creek. The twinkling lights of votive candles nestled between the rocks on that gentle ribbon of water.
All those yellow daffodils began their progress to the Pacific as we stood on the shore, shattered and shocked.
As the small candles began to flicker out the darkness descended and clutched our hearts in its obscure embrace.
My clan had set aside worldly things for the greater good.
We didn’t know that some of us would be would be sucked into the eye of the hurricane, never to be seen again.
More to follow…
Next chapter:
THE MURDER OF MEN AND BOYS — VIETNAM
