by Randy Mixter
He began to read.
Article for publication July 30, 1967, submitted and received July 27.
I roamed the streets of Haight Ashbury today, questioning both young men and women on their reasons for coming to this small section of San Francisco. The responses I received were diverse and interesting. I hope that their words shed some light on the culture of the young, as it exists at the halfway point in the summer of love.
Annie, who is 16 years of age and a runaway, told me she was homeless for the first two weeks here. She slept, wrapped in a blanket, in the Golden Gate Park, or in the dark recesses of Haight Street, always mindful of patrolling police officers. She ate with the change provided from street begging and the free food supplied by the Diggers. She currently resides at a communal residence with several other young people her age or older.
When I asked her why she ran away from home, she told me her parents did not understand her. Her last sentence was a theme that repeated itself throughout many of my interviews.
I asked her how she was coping now. Annie told me that everything was ‘groovy’ at this time, and then excused herself to bum some money for dinner.
Rick and Lila were sharing a blanket on ‘Hippie Hill’. They hitchhiked here from Seattle, Washington in May of this year. Both are 19 years old. They had been dating for two years when they decided to journey to San Francisco. They admitted the lure of available drugs was the primary reason for their pilgrimage. Upon arrival, however, they became activists of a sort, befriending Allen Cohen, the editor of the San Francisco Oracle.
I asked them what they thought of the counter-culture revolution now. They looked at each other before Lila replied, and I quote:
“There is no revolution. What little organization we had fell apart when druggies, runaways, and weekend hippies saturated the place. These pretenders don’t want to change the world; they just want to get high.”
“We tried,” Rick added, before they pulled the blanket over them and hoped that I would take the hint.
Martin, who preferred I address him as Martino, is what they call an old-timer in the Haight. He arrived here in the spring of 1965 when the hippie movement was barely a whisper in the wind.
I found Martino sitting on the sidewalk in front of The Psychedelic Shop on Haight Street. Bearded and dressed as a true hippie. He wore a loose fitting patchy shirt, scruffy jeans, and suede mountain boots that covered his legs to the knee.
Martino would not divulge his age, but appeared to be in his late 20s or early 30s. I asked if he would mind telling me about the way it was back then, in Haight-Ashbury.
Before I continue, let me say that these weekly articles are about my take on the summer of love from the time I arrived in June until now. According to Martino however, the summer of love began in 1965 and has crossed over the seasons and the years to the present time.
Martino offered me the patch of sidewalk next to him and, between the constant interruptions of his many friends, told me of the old days.
He mentioned names I have become familiar with during my stay here, Ken Kesey and his Merry Pranksters, Timothy Leary, Tom Donahue (a local DJ), and Ralph J. Gleason who was a Jazz critic for the San Francisco Chronicle before he discovered folk rock and pyschedelia.
He talked about how Marty Balin and his partners bought a pizza shop, turned it into a nightclub named it The Matrix, and brought in his group, The Jefferson Airplane as the house band.
In those days, he told me, the free spirit community stretched for miles. He recalled countless trips to Virginia City, Nevada to see a group known as The Charlatans play at the Red Dog Saloon and hanging out with the Pranksters at Kesey’s home in La Honda hills of the San Francisco peninsula.
There were no weekend hippies back then, he told me. Everyone was of the same mind and philosophy. As he described it, they simply wanted peace, for themselves and for the world. He was sincerely apologetic that they had not yet accomplished that singular goal.
He had no sooner finished the sentence than the wind blew a newspaper against him. He picked it up. It was the front page of the San Francisco Chronicle. The headline read; 376 U.S. SOLDIERS KILLED IN THE BATTLE OF DAK TO AS WAR CASUALTIES MOUNT.
Martino stared at the paper for a while before he lowered his head and closed his eyes.
“And the world rubs my face in it,” he finally said.
My final interview was with a young man who had just arrived in town. The small suitcase he carried bore the words ‘San Francisco or bust!’ and had peace symbol stickers, in a variety of sizes and colors, plastered about its surface.
I found out his name was Peter and that he was 18 years old. He hitched his way west from Duluth, Minnesota. It turned out he had received his draft notice in the mail less than a week ago. That same afternoon he had his thumb out and his suitcase in hand.
I had never talked to a draft dodger before, or at least one who admitted it, and questioned him on his decision to hit the road.
Peter told me that he was no coward. He simply wanted to wait out the Vietnam War. He would return home as soon as it ended, saying there must have been a mistake. He had never received a draft notice. He simply decided to trek to San Francisco to enjoy a summer adventure.
I told him, in a brutally honest manner, that I did not think that strategy would work and suggested he reconsider. Peter rejected that line of thought with a shrug.
“There is always Canada,” he said before begging off to grab a bite to eat.
Although I imagine there are some young men in Haight-Ashbury, like Peter, dodging the draft, I feel that most in this tight knit gathering of humanity are here to celebrate life. Would they go to war if asked? Without a doubt the answer would be no. Perhaps I am a dreamer in a harsh world, but I think the majority here are fighters for change not bloodshed. They believe, with sincerity, in a world free of strife and conflict. If that lofty goal is found to be unreachable, then most will say they tried and age in a manner of grace and compassion.
Alex Conley, July 27, 1967
It looked like the same article he submitted. Once again, he had staved off Uncle Max’s dreaded red-inked pen.
“Can I see it?” said a voice from behind him. He turned to see Sarah above him, shadowed by the evening’s sunset.
“Sure,” Alex said, handing her the papers.
She sat next to him and read. As she neared the end of the piece, she read slower. Her lips moved as she followed the words in the final paragraph.
“I’d like to keep this if I may,” she said softly, still looking at the submission.
“Sure,” he said once again.
She folded the papers up and placed it in the bosom of her dress, then turned toward him. For a time she searched his eyes as though something might be hiding behind them. Then she bent forward, closed her eyes, and kissed him on the lips. He closed his eyes too. For the longest time they stayed like that, as the sun behind them advanced toward the earth.
A KIND PLACE TO VISIT
As far as Alex was concerned, the kiss in the park that night made it official. They were now boyfriend and girlfriend. It was Alex and Sarah, two hearts, each bearing their name, with an arrow running through them. The drawing was in his binder and, as soon as he borrowed a kitchen knife, the image would be on the porch railing.
They held hands walking back to the house, sat together on the porch step, and talked until the chill of a wind blowing off the bay drove them indoors.
The house was silent as they stood shivering in the lobby.
“I could have used your jacket tonight,” she said.
“Me too,” he replied, wishing he could think of something else to say for he feared the night was about to end, and he did not want it to.
She brought her arms to his shoulders and locked her fingers behind his neck.
“In the morning I’ll talk to Chick about new sleeping arrangements. Is that okay with you?”
“Yes,” he added, maybe a bit too quickly.
“It’s settled then.”
Her hands drew him close to her, close enough for another kiss.
“Goodnight,” she whispered in his ear. She turned and went up the steps.
He walked outside to the railing and gripped it with both hands. He saw Cowboy, hands in his pockets, walking toward the house.
“Hey brother.” Cowboy addressed him as he accessed the porch. “It’s getting kind of chilly out here.”
“I know.” Alex said to him, officially setting a personal record for one or two word replies.
The next morning, while the house slept, he secured a knife from the kitchen and carved two hearts in the porch railing. He etched an A in one and an S in the other, with an arrow piercing both.
After admiring his workmanship with pride, Alex placed the knife safely back in its drawer. His arts and crafts project complete; he decided to walk the neighborhood. It was a beautiful sunny summer morning and his disposition matched the weather.
Tonight, with any luck, he and Sarah would be sharing the same bed. At least he hoped that was the meaning of her words last night. What else could they have meant? And what about the privacy issue? Sleeping together in the same room with Cowboy, Skip, and Benny would not be an option.
It was a nasty habit of his to over think things, and he was doing it again. He elected to put his faith in Sarah, let things play out in a normal fashion, and enjoy his early morning stroll.
He planned to visit the Golden Gate Park first then head over to Haight Street before returning to the house for a late bowl of corn flakes. If he crossed paths with a person of interest, someone who would add some spice to his next article, all the better.
He was looking for a different point of view. His writings were beginning to have a sameness about them. The convictions of the leaders and the followers of this community had been well documented by him and others. One article involving an outsider looking in would be a refreshing change of pace.
A short time later, as Alex skirted the many blankets and bodies on Hippie Hill, fate, in the guise of dumb luck, intervened.
He sat on the grass, in the empty space where he often sat with Sarah. From his perch near the hill’s summit, he was able to see the vast array of humanity spread out on the grass.
Unlike the afternoons and evenings in the park, the mornings were peacefully quiet. The young men and women who claimed the park for overnight shelter were bundled in their blankets, either sleeping or too drowsy to rise.
Here, the last mist of the morning sought refuge from the rising sun, veiling the joggers, bicyclists, and dog walkers at the hill’s base.
Alex was content to watch the sun to burn off the stubborn haze. He pulled the watch from his pants pocket. It was almost nine o’clock, plenty of time to rest before moving on to Haight Street.
The minutes passed as he thought of Sarah. He had arrived in San Francisco nearly a month ago, sent by his employer to write stories relevant to the summer of love. Or maybe his dream of Sarah wished him here. Maybe this enchantress in white, who some called Sarah of the moon, brought him to this place. She had said “soon” in the dream, and it had come to pass.
“Mind if I join you?” a voice said from close by. “You look like you could use some company.”
Alex turned to see a young man standing above him. He wore jeans and sandals. His shirt was Army issue and had seen better days. He recognized both insignias on his sleeve. The upper patch, profiling an eagle, designated his unit, the 101st Airborne Division. The patch beneath showed his rank as corporal. The name above his breast pocket read Paxton. His hair was short enough for Alex to believe it was not a borrowed shirt.
“Have a seat,” Alex said, pointing to the ground next to him. “The grass may still be a little damp.”
“I’m used to that,” the young man said as he sat down.
He held out his hand. “Matt Paxton’s the name.”
“Alex Conley.” And they shook.
“Your hair is almost as short as mine. I’m going to guess you haven’t been here long,” Paxton said.
“Almost a month, and believe it or not I have yet to shave.”
“Beats the hell out of shaving every morning with cold water and a dull razor.”
Alex looked at him. His expression was cheerful but his eyes had the hollow look of someone who had seen true horror, up close and personal. His father once told him that a soldier’s eyes tell all the stories of war. Matt Paxton’s eyes spoke volumes.
Paxton’s sleeves were rolled up to the elbow. On his left forearm, a couple of inches past his wrist, was a pockmarked scar. He had seen a similar marking on his father’s shoulder where a bullet had pierced the skin.
“Vietnam?” Alex asked.
There was a moment’s hesitation before he spoke. “July, 1966 to May, 1967.”
“I didn’t serve a full year because I was shot outside of Da Nang in a convoy ambush. It was my second purple heart. They took pity on me.”
Alex studied his face. His father only talked of the war when applying it as a learning tool. His recollections usually ended with the words, “and let that be a lesson to you.” He wanted to know more about the war in Vietnam but not at the expense of a battle-scarred man. He decided to ask and accept any response, good or bad.
“So how was it over there?”
Matt was quick to answer. “Not good.” He looked over at Alex. “What’s your draft status? If you don’t mind me asking.”
“I don’t know. I haven’t received my draft notice yet,” Alex replied.
“And when you do?”
“I’ll go in. It’s expected of me.”
“Your father?”
Alex nodded his head. “He was in the Army for twenty-two years. He fought in World War II, wounded twice and a silver star.”
Matt reached into his pocket and pulled out a red white and blue ribbon, attached to it was a star. “Same here.”
For the next two hours, they talked mostly about their fathers. As it turned out, Matt’s father was also a World War II veteran.
“He was at Normandy on D Day,” Matt said. “I found that out through my mother. My father didn’t talk about his time in the army.” Matt lowered his head and his voice.
“He screamed sometimes at night. My mother told me it was from nightmares of the war. I would hear her comforting him in the next room. Its okay, she would say. You’re home now, you’re safe.”
“The morning I left for Vietnam, he took me off to the side and talked to me about wars and those who fought them. I should have talked to you more about my experiences in the war, he told me. Then he said something I’ll never forget.” Matt raised his head as two laughing children ran by.
“If you are ever afraid to close your eyes, talk to me, he said. Together we can fight anything hiding in the darkness.”
The laughing children ran by them again.
“We talked a lot when I came home, and not long after that my father stopped screaming at night.”
The subject of Vietnam came up many times in the course of the conversation. Matt detailed the circumstances and reasons for his three awards, all the results of firefights in the central and northern provinces of the country.
He had barely recovered from wounds sustained in a ferocious battle in the Da Nang province when his thirty eight-vehicle convoy encountered a company of North Vietnamese regulars during a daylight supply run to Phu Loc.
Although outnumbered three to one, and taking fire from both sides of the road, they held their own against a determined enemy. At one point during the battle, the enemy surrounded a truck carrying fifty crates of weapons, compromising it.
Matt and two other soldiers charged from their position near the convoy’s rear and secured the truck, saving the three soldiers in the truck’s cab from a certain death, and denying the enemy a large supply M-16 rifles and M-60 machine guns.
Matt took a bullet in his arm and in his leg. His two friends were not as fortunate. One
took a shot to the forehead, the other to the chest, dead center, where his flack jacket’s two sides tied together.
All three received the Silver Star for their actions. Matt’s friends were buried in uniform, their medals attached, with full military honors.
Matt’s tour in Vietnam effectively ended the day of the ambush, two months and two days early. Ninety-eight Army infantry successfully fought back an enemy force estimated at three hundred fifty strong. Seventeen were killed in action and twenty-six wounded. The enemy sustained casualties in the hundreds, although accurate figures were not available due to the severity of the called-in F-4 Phantom napalm strikes on the tree lines bordering the road.
Matt processed out of the service in Oakland, and then took a bus across the bay bridge to his home in the South Bay section of San Francisco.
Though ridiculed and cursed at the airport, he wore his uniform on the bus, where no one sat next to him and the words ‘baby killer’ and ‘murderer’ echoed through the stale hostile air.
After that bus ride home, he never wore the full uniform again. Two weeks later, on a Saturday morning, he rode another bus to Haight Ashbury. For this trip, he donned a pair of jeans, sandals, and his olive drab fatigue shirt from Vietnam. No one said a harsh word to him throughout the entire journey. It was apparently okay to wear part of a uniform, just not the entire thing.
