By Robert Wintner
1969 was once that pivotal yr for the child boomers. younger and blameless, they got the final word freedoms and have been confronted with growing to be up.
This touching, hilarious memoir is the real tale of a past due sixties grand travel of Europea life-defining parable, if you keep in mind and when you can’t. by no means sooner than and never considering that have a handful of seasons so exquisitely outlined the adaptation among correct and unsuitable. With the present of adlescent they observed, sensed, and savored the laughably transparent contrast among revenue cause and greed, among fact and propaganda, among nationwide curiosity and safeguard contractors, among a beautiful cloud of smoke and the smoke of napalm, and among the phantoms of safety and the hazards of complacency and atrophy.
Stoned to the gills after which a few, those adventurers observed and felt and knew issues that no new release ahead of did. a few absolutely engaged within the counterculture whereas others in simple terms saw, sticking a left foot in, pulling a left foot out, yet now not rather leaping to the whole hokeypokey.
It was once a major time of self-discovery, of affection, and of checking out what you have been made of.
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Extra info for 1969 and Then Some: A Memoir of Romance, Motorcycles, and Lingering Flashbacks of a Golden Age
But then unnecessary risk was the risk most valued. The 441 Victor came only in yellow, and actually owning a 441 was a yellow badge of machismo—a pogo stick with incredible low-end torque. We rode long hours with no windshields in those days, camping out and waking up in dew soaked bags on the stone cold ground, mustering the umph to rise to the frigid morning for a whiz, then firing up the camp burner for coffee, stoking a chunk of hash, blending into the mists and knowing the day ahead for what it would be worth, which was everything it could be.
Well, so it wasn’t a jet. It was a Scottish Airlines plane that went north to Nova Scotia to minimize over-ocean time and took sixteen hours. No frills? We didn’t even know what a frill was. We napped on the floor. So what? And you still had to get to New York. So? You got ninety days of the whole wide world in the bargain, which was as different as Paris, Illinois from its namesake in France. Anyway, Old Mom was only about fifty then, and though prone to nervous energy, she mostly had her emotions under control.
He and I glanced at each other and giggled at prospects of the pizza queen devouring the pizza. We feared another hyena round that would render us helpless among big, trailer-park women. Queenie caught us snickering and cried out, “Balls, cried the queen! ” The trailer wasn’t at all like Marcia’s place. Both places were tattered, but the trailer was brightly lit and slovenly, an example of the emerging phrase, trailer trash. It reflected none of the Age of Aquarius. It was a dump. I suspected Queenie’s cry of balls and kingship was regular and predictable, and sure enough.