SUMMER OF LOVE

Much has been made in the media about this being the 40th anniversary of the so-called “summer of love” in San Francisco in 1967. This is my recollection of that time.

First, a little background: I was 24 years old. My first marriage had ended in 1965. I returned to my home town of Lansing, Michigan and got a job at Oldsmobile division of General Motors. (Lansing was also the home town of Oldsmobile, which has now gone the way of Packard and Studebaker and Nash. But I digresss….)

After working on an assembly line for a year and a half, I was not fulfilled. This was not the career path I wanted. (In those days, one could easily quit a job and get another one). A friend had moved to San Francisco and was writing me letters, telling me how cool it was out there and inviting me to come and join the fun. I quit my job and packed my Triumph Spitfire, tying an ancient 9x9 canvas umbrella tent on the luggage rack, and drove west to find my future. It was May 1, 1967.

The trip took eight days, with stops at the Grand Canyon, Las Vegas, Yellowstone and the meteor crater in Arizona. I moved in with my friend and her friend – the only one with a job. I had arrived.

I stayed in San Francisco for three months, looking for work. I didn’t find any. There were so many people pouring into the city and so few unskilled jobs. There wasn’t much call for an ex-autoworker. We lived on welfare peanut butter and cheese.

I spent quite a bit of time on Haight Street that summer. It was a zoo. Tourist busses were driving down the street with people taking pictures of the freaks. (“Freaks” was a positive term in those days). There were free concerts in Golden Gate Park. I saw Jimi Hendrix there one day, right after the Monterey Pop festival. There were lots of local bands that played free concerts. I saw Janis Joplin with Big Brother – the worst band I ever heard. Country Joe and the Fish played everywhere. Pot and acid were passed around like candy. It was a lot of fun.

All good things must come to an end however. I ran out of money. I couldn’t get a job. I had worn out my welcome with my roommates. I was homesick. The scene on Haight Street was turning ugly. Fights were breaking out. Hell’s Angels were showing up. The real hippies took to the hills. And – oh yes, they tried to draft me into the army! That was not the career path I wanted either and I managed to convince them they didn’t really want me either. (There was this place called Viet Nam…..).

Right when I was running out of options, I received a registered letter. I thought one of my creditors had finally found me. When I opened the envelope, there was a check from my mother and a note that said to use it for whatever I wanted. It paid for gas for the drive back to Michigan and to my career path as an autoworker for the next 30 years.