Excerpt from Chapter 33: Flower Lady

Vernal Falls, Yosemite

Chapter 33: Flower Lady

“Nothing matters very much and very few things matter at all.” – Lord Balfour

 

An old brown truck that had seen better days pulled up to the Village Mall at Yosemite Park where Jan and I stood with matching thumbs out. The overly eager driver, obviously delighted to happen upon two teenage girls standing at the side of the road, was more disappointed than we were when he discovered we weren’t headed in his direction. A pleasant enough fellow, we would have been more than happy to ride a good stretch of the road with him.

     One down.

     Next, an older man stopped to give us a short lift, taking care of a few miles, with approximately two hundred and eighty five left to go. When he dropped us off, a couple of young guys were already ahead of us lingering on the shoulder of the road. According to the small sign the two had fabricated, they also had a reasonable distance ahead to travel.

     The last thing you want when you’re hitchhiking is competition. Luckily, we were young, and we were female – those two factors alone usually trump two males in their twenties waiting on a ride any day of the week. Unless, of course, the prospective driver happens to be a woman.

     Along came a black Pontiac Parisienne. After crisscrossing over two lanes and coming to a stop, the driver opened the heavy passenger door, enabling us to make our way into the vehicle with ease. He even sprung out of the car to help us with our backpacks, and told us he was heading to Lake Tahoe.

     Discouraged, we had to decline. Once they’d clued into the fact that Jan and I we weren’t getting into the car after all, our competition almost tripped over one another as the two dudes raced over to the vehicle and jumped inside. Jan and I watched longingly as the big boat squealed from the curb with a vengeance. Dust and stones, perpendicular to the white wall tires, spat and sputtered, like a mini explosion as the driver tore up the road. Wondering if the fireworks display was for our benefit, I hung my head. That could have been our ride if only we were going to Tahoe.

     It was out of the question.

     Almost cheerful about our misfortune, Jan was convinced that morning a car would soon appear with our names emblazed on it. I chuckled to myself at her wishful thinking and sat down on a rock, briefly removing my boot and sock to expose my foot and wiggle my toes in the fresh air. It was still a relatively cool morning. One that would become progressively warmer as the day wore on.

     My right foot had become sore the day before when my feet swelled in the heat while walking up and down The Mist Trail at Yosemite. The inside of my one hiking boot caused friction against the back of my heel, and an ugly callous the size of a robin’s egg had surfaced. The callous actually started back in Vancouver when my work boots were still new, but had gotten worse in recent weeks. I considered switching to my sandals, but then I’d have to strap my boots to my backpack and I didn’t want to create any extra weight –even one pound or two was too many to carry once the sun came out in full force.

     Ten minutes later, an anonymous vehicle eased its way up along the horizon. Finally, a yellow ‘69 Toyota station wagon came into view. As it got closer to us, the car began to slow down and eventually stop. Inside was a good-looking man in his late twenties. His name was Grace. Grace introduced us to Jude, his equally attractive blonde girlfriend. The couple were from Australia and on their way to San Francisco for a few days prior to heading up to Montreal, Canada, to attend the summer Olympics. Ultimately, they were headed to Europe where they planned to travel with a Euro-rail pass.

     We didn’t subscribe to coincidences in late spring of 1976, and so, with an extra bounce in our steps, Jan and I began to unload our weight into the back of the small wagon. My good friend didn’t neglect to shoot me an all-knowing glance. Out of respect, I gave her a mock bow.

     Jan's intuition had been spot on.

1976: Tapes from California © 2013 Jill C. Nelson

 

Chaos and Order ~ Chapter 38 Excerpt

The following is another excerpt from Chapter 38 titled "Nameless Wanderer" and describes the challenge of being faced with a tough decision as a teenager thousands of miles from home and family, with little life excperience to draw from. In this excerpt, Jan and I are back at the youth hostel on Steiner St. in San Francisco.

'On Monday morning, Craig and Larry left.

     People were starting to drop like flies.
     Jan and I washed and dried the dishes and listened to Phil Ochs’s Pleasures of the Harbor on the record player. The melodies and lyrics of each song felt meaningful and oddly poignant – the way it is when you listen to a piece of music for the very first time, and its enormity is overpowering.
     Afterwards, I took held onto the cover of the record I’d purchased a couple of months earlier, went into the bathroom and locked the door. With my journal on my lap, I began to scribble down some of the writings by Ochs that appeared on the back of the album’s jacket.

      “…and the bleeding seer crawled from the ruins of the empire and stood bleeding, bleeding on the border he said, passion has led to chaos and now chaos will lead to order.”

     I placed the slender black marker down for a moment and looked out the window at Duboce Park. It was still, nothing to observe around the premises except the freshly turned vegetable garden adjacent to the house. I shifted my eyes toward the manse across the road from my window. There was little activity, I wondered if that meant school was in session.
     The silly joke made me smile.
     With my pen in hand, I began to scratch out a self-directed message in my journal.

     “Everyone seems to think that it’ll help if I ask for an answer. It’s not an easy thing to do. I want to try to write about/to God, but I can’t. The words won’t come. There are too many concepts to consider... it all boils down to one basic idea. Stay simple. Don’t worry about anything, because when you stop worrying, you open yourself up to answers already in existence. There is little reason to constantly wonder why.
     ‘“Relax, and you shall find your place in space.”’

     Meadowlark rang in my ears. It wasn’t much, but it was something.  
     That morning the sky was blue streaked and the temperature had soared to 87 degrees. There was no excuse to wear the green kangaroo so I stored it safely inside of my pack. Jan and I set off to the underground shop to see about a ride north of the city, and then hiked over to the San Francisco Ride Centre. That proved to be a useless effort; it was explained that we each had to pay a four-dollar registration fee before anyone would assist us in finding a ride.
     No can do.
     One fact was constant; without money, finding our ticket out of San Francisco and up to the west coast of Canada wasn’t going to come easy. Not unless we hitchhiked our way out. That was a definite possibility.  
     As we sat in a Chinese restaurant eating fifty-cent bowls of steamed white rice, Jan and I tossed schemes back and forth but it still came down to money. We had enough to get our butts back to Canada, and then we’d go from there and see how long we could make our dollars last if we couldn’t find work. As long as we weren’t faced with forking out dough for fees so headhunters could locate rides for us, we’d be okay. While eating our lunch, jointly, we visualized that we’d find a ride between Wednesday and Saturday.
     I was starting to think I had a split personality. One side of me was set to make Holy Order of Mans (HOOM) my home and the other was talking about going to Alberta, with Jan and the friends we hoped to visit there. It was a strange and surreal state of consciousness; I looked forward to synthesizing my thoughts and options so that they would become united. The only drawback was that it couldn’t be forced, but the pot was about to boil over.
     I had one day to go.'

1976: Tapes from California © 2013 Jill C. Nelson

Excerpt from Chapter 42: Pressing On

   

    

 

The following excerpt is from Chapter 42 titled "Pressing On." The excerpt describes an unusual night in June, spent in a car in mystical Mount Shasta, California. Jan and I were introduced to Roger fifteen minutes before the three of us departed in his white Volkswagen beetle from the youth hostel in San Francisco, to travel with him to Eugene, Oregon. Roger planned to drop us off in Eugene on our way to Seattle. It wasn’t uncommon during those days to hook up with someone at a hostel and share the cost of gas if you were headed if the same direction.

"Use spear of mind which is thought – to stop what negativity has been wrought.” – The Golden Force
 

     It was close to eleven that evening when Jan and I first started to feel symptoms of fatigue. Roger had finally found the magic spot to lay his head for the long night ahead – it was about twenty feet in front of where he’d parked the car, close to a tangle of undergrowth and sheltered beneath the tall firs. On top of broken ice and sludge, it wasn’t much of a refuge.
     Roger peeled off his denim jacket and jeans, preferring instead to sleep only in his t-shirt. In the few hours since we’d arrived at Mount Shasta, Jan and I witnessed Roger make several desperate disappearing acts into the woods, only to return many minutes later to resume thrashing around inside of his sleeping bag. We watched him flaying about, and heard sounds of him coughing and vomiting. At one point, I gave him a huge wad of the toilet paper I’d stashed inside of the vehicle earlier so it wouldn’t get damp. He thanked me. Once, when Jan got out of the car to wander over to where Roger lay, he told her that he was fine and to return to the car. He wasn’t fine, but we were at a loss as to how to help him. All we could do was to sit tight in the car, and if he needed anything, we were on standby.
     I’d read in a book somewhere that withdrawal symptoms from opiates such as heroin, could vary from a day to a few days, depending on the amount ingested and a person’s body type.
     Roger had proven to be a gentle, sweet man. Neither one of us wished him harm in any way. 
     Swathed in darkness with a throng of stars proliferating the sky, the dominant presence of Mount Shasta wearing a snow-white tiara reminded us how dependent we three were upon one another that night. It might have been the power of suggestion, but there was something corporeal about the mountain, as if it was watching over us, waiting. I recalled some of the mysterious stories Roger had told us earlier in the afternoon when the sky was still light. He’d said there were secret tunnels and rumors of a subterranean city, and that people had eyewitnessed unusual spectacles and reverberations at Shasta which they believed to be spirits. Eyewitnesses mentioned the existence of little people; faeries, even a Big Foot population, and other odd, immortal creatures inhabiting the mountain that only made themselves visible to a chosen few. Evidently, Mount Shasta is one of the landing sites for UFOs. It was, and is still considered a cosmic summit on planet earth.  
     Inside of the car, I clutched Peter’s green kangaroo jacket around my shoulders, pulled my sleeping bag up to my neck and asked Jan if she was scared. She said she wasn’t, but said she wished that Roger would feel better soon. I did too. We decided it wouldn’t hurt to pray to the mountain, asking it to help Roger become healthy again.
     In the dark, off in the distance, the sallow face of the mountain stared down at the two of us bundled inside of our sleeping bags secured within the enclave of Roger’s bug. Our unconscious mindscapes were linked, an allusion that Mount Shasta was listening. Within the hour, we both fell asleep.
     Throughout the crisp night, Jan and I periodically awakened and took turns keeping watch. It wasn’t something we planned – we felt compelled. Someone needed to be on guard to make sure Roger didn’t freeze to death outside in the cold. It seemed inprobable that a person could perish in Northern California climate in June; we didn’t want to take a chance.
     Due to the frosty temperature and restrictive space inside of the vehicle, neither one of us slept longer than brief intervals, anyway. At times, the foggy windows made it difficult to make out Roger's sleeping bag. Every so often one of us rolled down a window to clear the condensation trapped within the car. The translucent skies overhead cast a generous dose of light, permitting us to view his figure moving, almost in a punishing manner out there on his side along the rutted ground, as if he was seeking penance for some unforgivable deed. Given the volatile circumstances, mercifully, Roger probably had a better night’s sleep than we did. During the last few hours toward dawn, our haunted friend slept uninterrupted.
     Sunshine oozed through the trees in the early morning, warming the air inside and outside of the vehicle. Feeling a strong urge to pee, I opened the car door, walked over to a nearby bush, crouched down behind it and unzipped my jeans. I heard the sound of branches cracking off in the distance, and looked up to see Jan in her yellow cable-knitted, wool sweater, seeking cover. It was obvious she also had the need to relieve herself. As I refastened my pants, I glanced across the way toward the surface of the partially icy ground and watched the lumpy mass that was Roger shift inside of his sleeping bag. All but concealed by his cocoon, the man was still alive; thank god, and smoking a cigarette. 
     I got back into the car and Jan soon followed. She appeared tired, exactly how I felt and probably looked. Both of us kept our eyes ahead fixated on Roger waiting to see what his next move might be. 
     “What do you think?” I craned my neck over at Jan, hoping she would sum up our present situation.
     Jan shook her head, pondering. “I don’t know. I guess we’ll have to wait and see how he’s feeling. If it takes longer than we figured to get to Eugene, that’s fine with me.”
     Pointing her head in the direction of Roger’s sleeping bag, Jan took a short breath, and then hesitated, “As long as he’s okay.”
     The distance between Mount Shasta and Eugene was approximately two hundred and fifty miles  – about four hours drive or more, depending upon traffic. Neither of us wanted or expected Roger to drive anywhere unless he was feeling up to it. Depending upon the kind of night he’d had, it could go either way. If he was detoxifying from drugs, it might be a few days before he’d be in shape to drive. I started to imagine what it would be like to remain for two or three days in the precise location of the Great Spirit, with its clandestine sect of highly evolved human beings. There were tales of conduits, possessing the power to channel the thoughts of supernatural spirit bodies. If indeed they existed, there was no doubt that at least one of them possessed the power to negotiate our prayers on Roger’s behalf.
     I hoped it was true.

 

***

 

1976: Tapes from California © 2013 Jill C. Nelson

Excerpt from Chapter 38: Nameless Wanderer

The following excerpt is from Chapter 38: The Nameless Wanderer

Somehow, Jan and I got our wires crossed with Craig and Larry. They were nowhere to be found when we finally arrived down at the Wharf around two pm. We searched all along the waterfront but to no avail. They probably got fed up waiting for us to attend Cole St. services first, not to mention, we had something to eat afterwards; withdrew a bit of money out of the bank and caught the bus to the Wharf. All of that took a few hours. Obviously, they weren’t patient boys. I can’t say I blamed them. As it turned out, they ended up going to a concert which would have been a hell of a lot more fun.
     In those days, when travelling you had to be precise if you made plans to meet up with people, and hope there weren’t any unforeseen circumstances that might have bearing on whether or not an individual showed up. There was no way of knowing details as to why someone didn’t materialize until the next time you either saw or spoke to that person. Changing plans last minute meant that generally, someone was left stranded waiting, annoyed, while staring down at the face of a wristwatch. Living at hostels or at the homes of strangers for brief periods as we were doing in cities that were foreign to us, created an even greater need to be specific when pinpointing locations to hook up. The ability to send or receive a text message would have come in handy. This was more than twenty-five years before the mode of communication had been dreamed up.
     No such luck.
     Jan and I sat around on a bench for a while watching the boats chase one another out on the water. It was now getting close to 4 o’clock and I decided to head back to Steiner St. I figured by the time I reached the hostel by bus, it’d be almost 5pm – the coast would be clear to return to the nest. Jan wanted to stay behind and said she would walk home later.
     The two of us hadn’t vocalized it, but recently, Jan and I both detected an underlying need for space, at least until we (or she) were on our way back up the coast. Silently, we’d agreed upon slackening things a little in order to allow one another room to breathe. I also knew that Jan wanted to stay within an arm’s length of me, at least until I made my decision. That afternoon, I felt in my gut that a shift in the wind was imminent. I simply couldn’t go on much longer agonizing about what to do about my future.
     Something else occurred to me during the service at Cole St.  in the morning which had given me cause for pause. That was this fact: apart from a measure of familiarity with the Brothers, Sisters, and some of the novices at HOOM, I knew very little about the organization. Its overall practices, procedures, and origins of faith eluded me. My knowledge was shaped from what had been told to me by partisan members. That wasn’t good enough. I had leafed through a copy of HOOM’s bible, “The Golden Force,” but I was a layperson and though some of the passages were designed to impress, flatter supporters and also colleagues – that they were a part of a private and elite, supernatural society – the book mostly remained bafflegab to me.
     Which brought me back to the leading question: Why was I considering joining a cult?
     Peter’s face popped into my head.
     That was my pragmatic side resonating – I’d known it was hiding inside of me somewhere. For one of the very first times since all of this wavering had begun, it dawned on me that I might actually be considering enlisting for some freakazoid show like the Moonies, capable of borrowing your brain and not giving it back. Sure, I’d thought about that before. Now, it seemed like a real possibility. It might not have been much, but I determined that I'd better cling tightly to all grey matter.
     I rode the first leg of the trip up the hill on the trolley and then hopped the bus for the last stretch of the ride. The bus dropped me off in front of HOOM, and I decided to read for a while in Duboce Park where Jan and Beth and I had held our private party a couple of nights before - just to play it safe.
     A couple of novices I hadn’t met before, Thomas and Rebecca were outside working in the soil patch. They eventually meandered over to where I sat and made a formal introduction. Smiling shyly, Thomas held out a pretty, violet-colored flower picked from a sweet pea plant and asked if I would like to have it. I thanked him and waited for the shoe to drop. In recent days, veterans and new members of the Holy Order crawled around the hostel and its hinges like locusts. In case there might be a reason for that, I stayed on my guard. In all probability, they were only being friendly, just as I discovered Joanne had been in the garden earlier in the week.
     These folks may have been appendages of a cult, but so far, my instincts told me they were rock-solid people.

1976: Tapes from California © 2013 Jill C. Nelson. 

Excerpt from Chapter 35: Rose is Still a Rose

HAPPY 2014!

     Progress is going well on "Tapes" with completion of over 200 pages. My goal is to include photos and artifacts from our journey, some of which are extremely unique as some of the sites are no longer in existance.
     The following excerpt is from Chapter 35 and tells of some of the experiences during our time at The Holy Order of Mans  (HOOM) Youth Hostel on Steiner St. in San Francisco. Jan and I stayed there for extended periods on two separate occasions during our travels that spring.

'I looked over at Marcel, and then down at the various Animals LPs in his hands and noticed he bore a remarkable resemblance to Eric Burden, the band’s lead singer. Since our first introduction, Marcel had reminded me of Moe from “The Three Stooges”. At that moment, I realized I’d had him pegged wrong from the beginning, and told him so.

     I don’t think he appreciated being teased.

     We split up shortly after that point, with Marcel remaining behind. Jan, Doug and I got a lift from a man in a pick-up truck. When asked where we were headed, we instructed the driver to drop us off at the wharf. I still wasn’t feeling up to snuff but I figured that the salt-water air, boring deep into my lungs had to have been at least about half as restorative as a day’s rest in bed. Anyway, I didn’t have a choice in the matter; the hostel was off limits during the day unless you were at death’s door.
     I wasn’t – not yet anyway.
     By the time we'd been delivered back at the hostel late in the afternoon, my sore throat had turned into a cold. I didn’t pay it any mind – with any luck; I’d shake it as long as I stuck to ginger ale, and a healthy diet.
     What a laugh. Our stingy diet couldn’t get much healthier.
     Despite my aching body, I had a feeling of well being when setting foot in the door at Steiner St. that afternoon. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but if I’d learned anything since coming away, it was to live in the moment and revel in the nebulous blush.
     Carpe diem.
     Experience teaches that serendipitous sparks are few and far between, when one comes along, you reach out and grab a hold of it. Eventually, it will dissipate and this one did too, but while it lasted, I felt warmth in the core of my stomach, that spread upward throughout my body, filling every crevice until it finally subsided, leaving me with a redefined awareness of the difference between contentment and joy.
     A metamorphosis was taking place inside of me and I felt it was for the better.
     Marcel was waiting for us upon our return, all dressed up with somewhere to go. Evidently, after we left him back on Telegraph Avenue, he’d met a voman – details about her whereabouts or any physical description were not disclosed. I didn’t say it out loud, but I was curious if Marcel’s “voman” in question was a streetwalker. Not that it was any of my business, nor did I care, but he clearly made a point of letting us know he’d met a female and bragged that he was planning to hook up with her again later that evening.
     She might have even been a phantom.
     It occurred to me that it was quite possible Marcel was trying to make Jan jealous because she’d turned down his premature marriage proposal.
     While passing an hour or so until mealtime, dressed in wool pants and a buttoned-down shirt, Marcel joined a small gang of us in the park to play a pick-up game of softball until he split the crotch of his pants and asked Jan if she’d mend them for him. This was the second time he’d made the request to Jan in less than a week. I didn’t want to rain on her parade, but I was certain he was very capable of sewing his pants himself. If the shoe had been on the other foot however, I probably would have raced around to track down the closest needle and thread, and gone right to work.
     During dinner, Marcel and one of the other girls at the hostel had a contest to see who could draw more skillfully. Marcel made the greater impact within the group with his artistic dexterity when he set about to draw a pencil portrait of Jan. His depiction of her features and hair was extremely accurate.
     Jan was flattered beyond compare but she still wouldn’t budge on the marriage proposal deal.
     No one could accuse our Swiss compadre of lacking in the persistence department.'

1976: Tapes from California © 2013 Jill C. Nelson. Awesome Inc.

Oregon and California: Looking Back

On October 11, I departed from Toronto to Portland to spend the weekend with my friends, Judy and David, in Salem. It had been more than thirty-seven years since I'd last visited the state of Oregon during my initial trek with my friend Jan back in 1976, and my recollection was hazy at best. One of the purposes of this trip was to rediscover some of the locations (including Hemet, California) that Jan and I had travelled to many years ago in hope that I would not only be rejuvenated and inspired by the scenery, but that by returning to familiar and semi-familiar sites, my writing and my descriptions of those experiences would have clarity.
My memory of green mountains, far reaching landscapes with sea and sand hugging the corridor of the curvy terrain was prevalent, yet I found it tough to retrieve anything tangible beyond the firm impression of green. As it turned out, the strong green recall was not an apparition.
     As David and I drove between the airport and to his and Judy's home in Salem (their house reminded me of being enshrouded in an art gallery you never want to leave), we were ensconsed within flourishing verdant hues and hills proudly guiding us along on our route. Although we'd never met in person, David and I wasted no time digging into conversation; among other things, we chatted about extraterrestials and those fortunate souls that are attuned to receiving creative gifts in the form of words and writings bestowed upon them during slumber. It was a great opening to my journey and set the stage for things to come.

Pulling up to the Barker residence, we were greeted by Judy and their sweet golden retriever Franny (lovingly named after Franny in Salinger's classic novel, Franny and Zooey) eagerly waiting to welcome her dad and new roommate. Judy and I met 12 years ago and hadn't seen one another in 8 years since she visited our home in Ontario --  although we stay in touch weekly, we had a lot of catching up to do.
     With a delicous homemade serving of spaghetti and meatballs accompanied by some of Oregon's finest Pinot Grigio, we three sat around Judy's kitchen table and talked and laughed easily until it was time for bed; we had a busy day planned ahead. For Judy and me, it was surreal to finally be standing side by side in her diningroom in the house where she and David had raised their four daughters. I felt immediately comfortable as if I'd been there a hundred times. A library of books line the walls from floor to ceiling in their beautiful and eclectic home where there is no shortage of discussion of writers, musicians and artists - these two children of the '60s are abundant in their knowledge of all of the important facets of life that truly motivate a person to want to get up in the morning and greet the day. I know I did.

On Saturday morning we drove to pick up two of their girls, Taryn and Tessa, and the five of us spent the morning exploring the farmer's market in Eugene. There is something about autumn that draws people closer together with the anticipation of cooler days ahead. I felt like part of the family (and learned to pronounce "Oregon" properly!) as we wandered through the market stalls stopping at booths and talking with various vendors. It was beautiful with the fall colours and collections of pumpkins at every corner.
     From there we drove to the collosal and impressive King's Estate winery in Eugene to sample the goods and have lunch. The vineyards were bountiful, and in particular, we enjoyed tasting the Pinot Grigio and Pinot Noir generously poured by one of the friendly servers. Lunch was delicous with five of us around the table, fascinated, as Taryn shared the art of travel to exotic locales on a ridiculously reasonable budget. "It's all in the cards," she beamed, and impressively, Taryn has it down to a fine science, not to mention, she has great taste in wine and is an instantly likeable person. 
     After leaving King's Estate, we decided to treat our palates to Sweet Cheeks Winery just down the road in Crowe, for a uniquely different experience but just as satisfactory as King's Estate.
     Back in 1976, with Jan barely 17 and me just a shade over 18, not only did we not have any money to speak of, we were three and four years shy of the legal drinking age in most of the western parts of the United States., so an adventure such as wine tasting in Oregon or California was completely out of the question. This was manna from heaven.

     Sweet Cheeks definitely lived up to its cheeky name, and once again we enjoyed partaking of the winery's finest varietals and supple, smooth fruit of the wine. The scenery surrounding both of the vineyards was spectacular and so luxuriously green, you had to squint to determine if it was real. By the time we arrived back at the Barker household, I was certain that a part of that luscious colour had adhered itself to my body somehow just like Salinger's Seymour Glass and the lasting yellow stain on his hand from his little schoolmate's dress.

That evening, after pizza, Judy and David's youngest, Tessa (a compassionate and intellectual being), sat down at the family piano and beautifully performed Chopin. It was a perfect way to mellow out at the end of the day as we sipped on souvenirs from our afternoon at the wineries. Tessa and I also sang together, which was a lot of fun and something I don't get to do often enough. Tessa is not only an accomplished musician but she is blessed with a beautiful soprano voice. My rusty alto went a few rounds with her as we sang duets: "Falling Slowly," "There are Places," "For No One," and some Cat Stevens, among others. Tessa and David also broke out their acoustic guitars. What a great way for the four of us to casually spend time together.
     The next morning, we were off to Portland (the motherload of art communities) to have brunch with Hayley, David and Judy's eldest daughter who has inherited her supreme artistic ability from her father. Hayley is currently working on a series of paintings interpreting visions of Mary (Madonna of Medjugorje) that several children had witnessed in Bosnia during the early 1980s. Recently, Hayley met with the children (now grown) to discuss their experiences so that she could effectively depict their visions on canvas. Although we only had a couple of hours to spend, being in Hayley's presence felt like a gift; she is like an ethereal flower, with light and love emanating from her being. It was a real thrill to learn of her inspiring work and I would love to be able to attend her art opening once her work is complete. This is a huge achievement.
     After brunch, Judy and David took me to The Japanese Tea Garden in Portland situated on five acres in the west hills of the city. We walked all through the park, pausing every so often to meditate on the omnipresent beauty and serenity that engulfed us from every vantage point. The fall colours were at their peak: a bouquet of reds, oranges, golds and green. It was a gorgeous afternoon spent with  treasured friends.

Judy will laugh, but since coming home, I've realized by reading ahead in my 1976 journal, that in mid-June of that year, Jan and I had hitched a ride from Eugene to Portland after spending a rough, chilly night in a guy's car at Mt. Shasta, California while on our way back to Canada. We were in search of a youth hostel in Portland which turned out to be a bust as it had closed down. I don't recall much about Portland other than wandering the downtown part of the city almost flat broke. I can verify however, that I had always vowed to return to Oregon one day so it obviously left me wanting more. I'm a bit shocked to learn that I actaully was in Salem before, but not completely surprised. I'm grateful to Judy and David for taking me to places that not only nourished the soul, but helped to reignite my memory.

     Sunday evening, David, Judy, Tessa and I went out for dinner at a tasty eatery, not far from their home. It was a relaxed atmosphere and we had a great meal and good time talking, joking, and recapping the weekend. Tessa even remembered to make a toast to my Canadian Thanksgiving! When dinner was over, we took one more walk around their picturesque neighbourhood in Salem, with Franny in tow. It was a mild evening and the stars shone down upon us, adoringly, making me feel happy inside. When we got back to the house after Tessa caught the train home, the three of us (with Franny listening) sat around the kitchen table and picked up our conversation from dinner. I had to marvel at how effortless it was for us to engage in a wide variety of lively topics and I knew right then that although I would miss our comaraderie, our friendship would be forever sealed because of our weekend together.

    Judy is a like a walking encyclopedia of information and a warm and affectionate individual. She is a loving mother, a caring friend, and a very bright woman. David, a talented writer and artist, is one of the most down to earth people on the planet. It was fantastic to finally meet and talk about our shared interest in writing, and I look forward to the piece that David will be contributing to this book. Apparently, Oregon life has been good to both of these friends.

     The only Barker daughter I didn't meet in person was Molly but we did talk on the phone which enabled me to glance into her strong character and fun loving nature. Just like her three sisters, Molly is distinctively her own individual and the proud mother of two great boys beloved by their grandparents. We'll definitely catch Molly next time around.

By David Barker

In the morning, David and Judy drove me back to Portland to the airport, where I was scheduled to catch an early afternoon flight to Los Angeles. We hugged and kissed one last time and promised to try to get both couples together next year. I know we'll do everything we can to try to make good on that promise. Love you guys.
     I touched down in L.A. just before 1:30 in the afternoon and caught a cab to my favourite place to stay in the city, Elaine's, tucked into in the loveliest section of Hollywood between Hollywood Blvd. and Sunset on Sierra Bonita Avenue. This was my third time staying at Elaine's and I was able to rent the "Pink" room, the balcony overlooking the back garden with avocado and lemon trees. I picked up some wine, guacamole, and crackers from Ralph's and dug in.
     It was great to kick back for a couple of hours to resume reading the new biography on Charles Manson by Jeff Guinn. Admittedly, it was a little ironic to be engrossed within this particular book during my time in L.A. My stay in Los Angeles with Jan back in 1976 involved visiting the site where Spahn Ranch had been located near Simi Valley. Here I was, thirty-seven years later, still fascinated by the psychology behind Manson's evil deed and the concept of group psychosis.
     I have visited L.A. many times over the years since Jan and I travelled there those decades ago. In addition to having family living in the area, I've made many friends throughout the process of having written two books and every time I stay, I get together with a few folks. It was great to spend time with special friends again during the designated time I had in the city. In particular: Margarita lunch with Joel, a quiet dinner with Kay, and also with Chris who joined our group at Musso and Frank for drinks. One of the highlights during those three days was appearing with six of the ladies I'd featured in my most recent book, Golden Goddesses, at Larry Edmunds Bookshop in Hollywood on Wednesday evening October 16 for a celebration of the book's one year anniversary. I won't elaborate about that here as this blog is dedicated to Tapes, but a splendid time was had by all.                   
     On Thursday morning, I headed south of L.A. in a rental car to a room I'd rented in Carlsbad for one night at Pelican Cove. The B&B was situated on the coast and I looked forward to being near the sea again. One of my primary reasons for heading to the San Diego area was to visit my good friend Julia (JSV), and also to navigate the Hemet desert region of the state where "Meadowlark," the site of Friendly Hills Fellowship had once stood. Meadowlark was a holistic centre/health spa/youth hostel owned and operated by the father of homeopathic medicine, Dr. Evarts Loomis, during the time that Jan and I had stayed there in May 1976. I was curious to know the status of the twenty acre ranch. Was the place and the surrounding buildings still standing? I would soon find out.



     Julia came over to meet me at Pelican Cove and after sitting upstairs on the balcony for a couple of hours catching up and having a few laughs, we headed out to the Coyote Bar and Grill in downtown Carlsbad for a bite to eat and listen to live music. The band wasn't at all bad and we sat outside next to the firepit, ordered a delicious rib dinner and chatted away. Life was grand. Although we'd seen one another the year before, it was great to spend time together again. Julia is smart, gregarious, funny, outrageous, and sweet all rolled into one fuzzy human being and she keeps you on your toes.

     I couldn't resist sampling Pinot from one of the local vineyards which turned out to be a good choice, and since Julia (bless her heart) doesn't drink, she didn't mind being the DD. (Sorry Enterprise, I promised I'd be the sole driver of the vehicle.)

     The next morning, I walked down to the beach and alongside the coastline for a while before meeting with Julia to spend the better part of the day exploring some of the local arts and crafts prior to heading down to the boardwalk to stroll along the path. It was a typically gorgeous, sunny day in Southern California with an ideal temperature of 80 degrees. In the late afternoon, I packed up my belongings and drove over to Julia's house in San Diego County to spend the weekend before flying home. Set on a half acre, Julia's home is spacious and artfully decorated with her keen and unique sense of style and taste. I admired her diverse collection of antiques, angels, and fairies. Her main outside patio has one of the most phenomenal vistas in all the state.

Early that evening, just as the sun was going down over the mountains, I noticed a big glowing ball rising up from behind the canyons. The moon was full that night and it was spectacular, especially when witnessing it from my vantage point while poised on one of the high back chairs on the patio. This monster moon was significant in many ways: while Jan and I were at Meadowlark, Hemet, we attended a full moon rising party up at Cottontail ranch which was part of the property belonging to Loomis and his wife. The celebration of the full moon rising soiree was one of the high points of my young life those many years ago. We communed, drank, smoked herb, and feasted on superb vegetarian cooking with produce yielded from Meadowlark's own organic garden - the same one that Jan and I worked in every morning with Hal, in exchange for food and shelter in the way of two soft hay beds in the horse's stable. Our feast that night was in anticipation of the magnificent moon that eventually greeted the big group of us standing in the still night air, watching until it finally consumed the vast California sky.
     Julia laughed when I told her about our full moon party (she has a full moon story of her own from back in the day that is the polar opposite of mine and far more entertaining) and my need to reconnect with this mystical place that had left a lasting impression thirty-seven years ago. Her words were something to the effect of: "Jill, why in hell would you want to go to the hottest fucking place on the entire planet?"I laughed knowing full well she really didn't mind... too much. Realizing how important it was to me, she agreed to accompany me (and share the driving) the following morning out to one of the steamiest desert locales in all of southern California to try to pinpoint Meadowlark ranch. Gotta love her.

Find it, we did, but it took some doing.

Julia was dead right about how oppressively hot it would be that afternoon -- to the tune of a very intense 94 degrees. We cruised down the main drag in Hemet with our air blasting full tilt and noticed at once that the downtown core was far more developed than I expected. As we drove along Florida Avenue we kept a look out for one of the main offshoots of the road which supposedly would eventually lead us to our destination. It seemed that we searched for a good half hour and finally reached the old part of town when I decided to pull over at a barbershop. We both needed a pee break anyway and this would give us an opportunity to stretch our legs and ask one of the locals if they could steer us in the right direction. Floyd, the barber (he could have easily passed as Mayberry's Floyd), was cutting hair while a man around our age, sat reading a book waiting his turn. Julia had ducked into the restroom so I approached the fellow, explained that I was 3000 miles from home and that thirty-seven years before, a friend and I had stayed at Meadowlark hostel that was actually a holistic center which administered to people from all over the world.
     The man looked up and his light blue eyes appeared to probe my thoughts as he smiled and said, "Sure, the old Meadowlark ranch is just around the corner from here. But you won't recognize it anymore."
     To my surprise he told me that he'd been at the ranch himself in 1974 when he was 14 years old. It was where his older sister had gotten married and her reception was also held on the premises. By this time, Julia had joined us, a little stunned to overhear that in less than a minute I'd found someone who knew exactly where we needed to go.
After exchanging email addresses outside, the man disclosed that he would never forget the reception because one of the women at the party had stripped naked much to his delight.Then we got back into the car but not before he invited us to a big old party that night up in the mountains. It was tempting, but we were both feeling hungry, not to mention dehydrated at this stage so we declined. We still needed to reach Meadowlark.
     As we drove off toward the ranch, Julia didn't waste time mentioning that it must have been destiny to stop the vehicle at that precise place when I could have pulled over anywhere. It seemed that some of Meadowlark's magic was rubbing off on my friend, who by that time was starting to become a believer in my quest.
     We turned around and made a sharp right turn. About two blocks up the road on the left hand side was what remained of the center just inside of a gated front entry that was open. We drove onto the premises and parked the car so we could get out and investigate. One of the buildings I remembered which is pictured on the home page of this blog where Jan and I are standing, was no longer there. That was disappointing, but another one of the buildings pictured in a photo of our friend, Bruce F., that Jan had taken the day we left Meadowlark, was still there. I was excited to see it again, and although it had changed with many of the shrubs and trees removed, the stone wall was still intact. Julia shot some snaps including one of me posing on what was left of the original covered wood benches.
     I felt melancholy to finally return to this residence and surrounding structures for reasons of which I'm not quite certain. When young, the select memories we tend to foster seem to have some bearing upon our future so I simply put it down to that. Sometimes, we don't need to understand the reasons for seeking.

     When we were eventually advised to leave the private property, I was ready to leave. The brief honeymoon encounter with my recollection was enough for me and I savored having set foot on the grounds once again. I could say goodbye, happy and contented. Before heading back, we followed a road sign that read "Cottontail" and got out. Although it seemed that the former Cottontail ranch had become a subdivision, the mauve-tinged San Jacinto mountain range and view of the landscape from where we stood was exactly as I'd remembered.

.On Sunday morning, the 20th of October, Julia and I embraced tightly before I coasted down the hill and made my way out onto the freeway. I had a plane to catch at San Diego airport and as I drove along, images of my nine days away replayed in my mind during the one hour trip. Two weeks after returning home, I am about to resume writing "Tapes." It's always an adventure to write, particularly after having reunited with a deeper glimpse into some of those integral days during our 1976 road trip shared through the eyes of entrusted friends. I'm excited to relay our story and hope that readers from my generation especially, will be able to detect a kind of spiritual synchronicity in our journey and relate it to something personal and perceptible in their own youth.

     Thank you Judy and David and the Barker girls, and to Julia for welcoming me into your homes and for making me feel a part of your lives as I attempted to rediscover pieces of mine.  ☮

1976: Tapes from California © 2013 Jill C. Nelson. Awesome Inc.

 

 



Excerpt from Chapter 6: Riding on the Walter Express - Round One

The following excerpt from Chapter 6 details our first attempt at crossing the border into the U.S.

     'Toting our backpacks behind us, we climbed on the Burrard St. bus and pulled away slowly from the curb. Soon we clicked along the highway toward Walter’s friend’s home located in the east end of the city. Upon our arrival, we counted three boys and two girls and waited for the rest in our group to land in before getting loaded up to go. Walter, a sketchy looking, fiftyish German man with three days worth of stubble, exuded occasional wafts of body odor but at least he was affable and laid back. His van was a standard-sized shaggin’ wagon, nothing out of the ordinary for the mid-seventies. If all of the seats hadn't been hauled out excluding the front Captain’s chairs, the vehicle would have seated six comfortably. Right away, it became obvious that the majority of us were going to be sitting on the hard metal floor in the back of the van for the duration of our eighteen-hour road trip with a few blankets strewn around the interior. It would be like riding in the back of a U-Haul truck for a thousand miles – a fair deal for 25 bucks. As more kids started to pull up in cars and on bikes to the house, we counted eleven, seven men and four women, including our driver. This would be one hell of a ride.

     While backing out of the driveway, two new male friends, “Curly” and “Ponytail,” shifted over to where we’d skillfully made a couple of tiny spots to sit, and we happily proceeded to engage in conversation with them consisting mainly of “Where are you from and why are you going to San Francisco?” all the way to the Washington State border crossing. It had been predetermined before we left that the only person worthy of claiming the Captain’s chair next to ole Walter was Cathy, who offered to relieve Walter of his chauffeur services whenever he got too tired to drive. Little did we know on our virgin run that Walter had liked to drink and pop amphetamines during long roadies and he would become too drunk to drive just barely outside of the country.

     The trip to the border was approximately sixty miles and considering we were eleven people squished into a battered van with no seats or seatbelts, we cruised along making great speed until we ended up in queue at the Peace Arch border. It was the tail end of the morning rush hour traffic and the line of cars, trucks and vans was lengthy which created a bit of friction inside the van with people needing to pee after downing cups of early morning coffee. Some of our gang got out and walked around until border officials corralled them back inside. We finished the lunches we’d packed which helped to pass time, and I held my bladder as we edged closer to the gate, figuring I’d be able to pee in the U.S., now just a stone’s throw over the border. In those days, passports weren’t required when traveling between the sister counties – a birth certificate would suffice and Walter collected them one by one from our motley crew, some Canadian, some American, as we joked about being pressurized together for the next seventeen hours in a smelly van. As teenagers, there were far nastier things to suffer through.

     When it was our turn to pull up to speak to the border official, ever so cautiously, Walter rolled down the window patiently anticipating how he would appropriately respond pending the official’s queries about the large number of guests, in tow. Requested to step out of the van in single file, we did so, and kept our mouths shut unless spoken to as we’d been programmed to do by Walter while waiting our turn. Despite what many would consider at first glance an unruly gang with unkempt hair and curious clothes, uniformly, we were a friendly, polite bunch, quick to appease the death stare of the officials so we could get back on the road and to our destination. It seemed however, there was a problem with the information on one of our birth certificates. Walter was waved over to the official to be scrutinized a little more closely. After about a minute, the man in the booth glanced in Jan’s direction beckoning her.

     “Come on over here.” The officer hadn't meant to sound abrupt. With her short brown hair, and freckles, Jan, red-faced for being centered out, suddenly looked about 14 as if she’d been scolded by a sour teacher. She approached the booth slowly while attempting to conceal her fears. The intimidating official stared her down.

     “Do you have a note from your parents?” His question fired like a bullet. Not realizing that she required a note from her parents to travel at the ripe age of barely 17, she shook her head.

     "Are you able to obtain one?” Obtaining one certainly one wouldn’t be a problem, but it would require some time - in all likelihood, days.

     “Yes,” she responded meekly. “Why?”

     “You’re under 18 and unless you have written parental consent to travel in to the United States, I can’t permit you to go.”

     Walter tried to intervene, as did I, and some of the other kids on the trip, specifically Curly who assured the officer that he would watch out for Jan. No go. It was a matter of guardianship and if we’d done our homework prior to our departure from Vancouver, we would have discovered that at 18, I could have vouched for Jan as her personal caretaker. Stupidly, we were unaware.'

1976: Tapes from California © 2013 Jill C. Nelson



1976: Tapes from California ~ An Introduction

Beacon Hill Park, Victoria, Vancouver Island - March 1976.

Welcome everyone to the new blog for my forthcoming book, a memoir titled 1976: Tapes from California. As many friends, family and acquaintances can attest, "Tapes" is a detour from my previous two works, John Holmes: A Life Measured in Inches and Golden Goddesses: 25 Legendary Women of Classic Erotic Cinema, 1968-1985 Admittedly, it's a bit frightening venturing away from authoring a book about a subject that is familiar to me and thoroughly rewarding. It's also scary to write about a personal story while attempting to understand the emotions that mirrored the experiences we encountered and revelled in. However, in keeping with the tradition of writing about the retro erotic film era, my new book is a reflection of the same rebellious fortitude that was at the very core of the birth of the renegade industry during the late 1960s. That resilient spirit lingered throughout the 1970s decade and reached its pinnacle in and around 1976, when I set out for new horizons just after turning 18.
     "Tapes" explores the highs and lows of a 6 month road trip I made with a friend to British Columbia, Washington, Oregon, California and back home through Alberta, Saskatchewan and Manitoba. It was an extraordinary, life altering journey for two teenage girls thirsty to experience 'real life' as we youth hostelled, hitched rides (2400 miles in all), and took planes, trains and automobiles to get to where we wanted to go. The title of the book is inspired by a song written by one of my most beloved folk heroes, the late, great Phil Ochs.
     The evolution of this project is currently being composed derived from a journal I'd kept during the trip, and also from my friend's personal diary. I am blessed beyond belief that both of us had the foresight to document so many of our experiences and episodes during our travels. I am reconstructing our encounters and the people who were a part of our journey to the best of my memory while using the books to chronicle our timeline and to help keep me on track.
     I have to extend huge gratitude to my friend and travelling partner, Jan, for holding on to many of our precious memories in the way of photos and memorabilia - many of which will be included in the book.
     In the weeks to come, I plan to share excerpts and a few select photos.

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