The phrase that time is relative has never escaped me. I always knew that as a young man that time was the here and now. The book for my generation that was the rage was "Be Here Now," by Ram Dass. It reverberated with the message of the times. You know all the Sha-la-la-la live for todayer's. I was one of them. You guessed it a hippie. Of course I had long hair and a beard. My little sister was kind enough to put my hair into tight braids, so that when I took them out it made my hair frizz out and it looked good with my big gold ring in my ear. Yep! That was me the cool cat, or at least I thought I was in my mind. After all, I watched Doby Gillis and thought Maynard G. Grebbs was cool. I may have even bought a set of bongo's. However I learned early in my life that I have no rhythm and I can't carry a tune. Except for my brief try at chorus in eighth grade. (My friend Michael Metti convinced me to try out. I actually made chorus, but my sisters laughed at me and I decided to quit. Just like my engagement to Mary Corona, when I was five years old. I bought her a ring, gave it to her because she was the absolute love of my life. Again my sister's made fun of me, so I remember asking her for the ring back. God Rest her soul as she has passed away.) The Hippie movement was right on time for my friends and I. The signs were all there and it was exciting. Looking back on the times I am still amazed and surprised about how unaware our parents and the police were concerning the times and the drug scene. I remember a hippie jeweler in town who had a small three bedroom house and he painted it the color of the rainbow, and put large bubble windows in place of the traditional ones. When you walked into the store he had completely covered the inside walls with broken pieces of mirrors in every room and had large display cases with all his wares. He burned incense and had black lights everywhere with brightly colored T-shirts for sale. Even I thought it was slightly bizarre for 1968. However, neither the police, nor our parents ever voiced any concern about the house, even though it was a major source of marijuana and hashish. Good times, where you could charge your purchases on your credit card and be styling. I suppose that it was a real sign of the times. Every one I am sure has many stories like that. People just didn't catch on or if they did they really did not care.
Fortunately for me, I was the first year of the draft lottery for the Vietnam war. They were taking everyone with numbers 210 and lower. My number was 242. Free bird! I am sorry for all the young men who went to Vietnam, many did not come back or they did in body but not mind and spirit. It was my good fortune to go skiing and not to war. I remember thinking what a very lucky group of men my friends and I were. We all worked in our family business's or in local jobs and were free to take long ski vacations, In my case, and Captain Zooms, Touloose, and Creme-Kings we all were able to go and live in ski town's like Aspen, Vail, in Colorado, Brighton in Utah, Jackson Hole in Wyoming. It started out by skiing weekends, then week days, until we realized we could ski every day if we became bona-fide ski bum's. Every mother's night mare, a son or daughter with out a real career, drifting through life like the snows of winter. I remember my first winter at Arapahoe Basin, as beautiful as it was every one was talking about Grand Targhee, in Wyoming that was the first and last mountain to get snow. It was addicting, the freedom I mean. Get up every day and turn your boards until you were exhausted. Work where ever and when ever you could. It was a freedom that captured my heart and soul and I guess that is why I have always wanted to write about it. To explain why we all ran way, we were in a way a lost generation. I believe that I found myself in the running away. Subsequently each and every one of us did. I really want to follow the lives of the people I knew at Arapahoe Basin, and where they went and what they did with their lives after leaving.
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