“Don’t you dare start without me,” Melanie called from the kitchen.
The four of them sat in silence until Melanie arrived, tray in hand. She offered glasses all around.
“This is my new dessert wine,” Melanie informed the Colonel.
“I see,” he said, taking a tentative sip. “Oh my. This is tasty!”
Melanie smiled. She took a seat and stared at the Colonel and Priscilla.
“I don’t know where to begin,” Priscilla said.
“Why not start in 1967?” the Colonel said gently.
Priscilla took a deep breath.
“All right,” she said. “1967.”
Chapter 31
1967
Casa de Promesas holds no promises for Priscilla.
Every day she reads of people her age heading to the West Coast. The assurance of peace, love, and music is too compelling to ignore any longer. The story of her grandfather leaving Spain with nothing but his dream gives her the courage she needs to settle Hilda, her one-eyed constant companion, in a small bag of clothes. She’s also packed her paint brushes. She silently closes the front door behind her. Her parents pride themselves on being open-minded, but not when it comes to her. They mean well, but they just can’t accept that she is grown-up and ready to make her own way. Priscilla knows it’s going to break her parents’ hearts when they see the letter saying she’s leaving. But there is nothing for her in Sandstone. There is a whole world out there—and maybe a place for her to paint without having to hide.
It is well before dawn when she gets to the highway. She pushes her long chestnut hair off her face and sticks out her thumb. An eighteen-wheeler stops for her. She climbs in the cab, smiles at the trucker, and freezes. She’s used to hitchhiking around Sandstone, but this is different. This is the first time she has been picked up by a stranger.
“Hey, there,” the trucker says. “How are you doing? My name is Stan.”
“Priscilla.”
“Where you headed?” Stan asks.
“San Francisco,” Priscilla says.
“I should have guessed. All you kids are heading out there, it seems.”
Priscilla shrugs and stares out the window. Stan’s statement both annoys her—nobody she knows is headed to San Francisco—and, at the same time, comforts her—everybody seems to be headed to San Francisco. She realizes the trucker is speaking to her.
“I’m going as far as Gallup,” Stan says. “But you’ll probably be able to get a ride to Vegas from there. I know a lot of the boys driving that route. I’ll make sure you get a good guy.”
“Thanks.”
“Your parents know you’re out here?”
“Sure.”
“Sure,” Stan repeats, but sounding dubious. “Well, when you get back home, you tell your parents a trucker named Stan did right by you.”
“I will,” Priscilla says, sensing for the first time that life on the road could possibly be very dangerous.
Stan is true to his word. As he pulls into a truck stop in Gallup, he turns to face her.
“You know it’s going to be tough out there, right?” he asks.
Here we go. Another adult telling me how horrible the world is.
“I know,” Priscilla says, hoping she didn’t sound surly.
“My daughter is about your age,” he says, looking toward the West. “She’s out there somewhere—and I have to hang on to the hope that someone is helping her.”
He hands her a business card with his name and phone number on the front and two dimes taped to the back. Priscilla looks at him quizzically.
“If you need me, call,” he says, tapping his Citizens’ Band radio microphone. “I’m in contact with the whole country through this thing.”
“There are two dimes,” she says, knowing a phone call is only a dime.
How much trouble was he expecting her to get in?
“The other dime is so you can call your parents. Just let them know you’re okay. It will mean everything to them.”
She thanks him and sticks the card in the back pocket of her blue jeans. She is not going to have to call him—and she is certainly not going to call her parents!
Stan asks a trucker named Henry to take her as far as Vegas. Henry finds Charlie who takes her all the way to San Francisco. Each man is kind and generous, not taking money for gas or food. Priscilla starts to relax. Stan was wrong and the hippies are right. If you put good vibrations in the air, love is returned to you.
Now she is walking around Haight-Ashbury, changing in a gas station bathroom to her flowing skirt and peasant blouse.
Haight-Ashbury is a world unto itself. A sliver of San Francisco centers around the intersection of Haight and Ashbury Streets; it is now just called “The Haight” by locals and wannabe locals alike. The neighborhood encompasses not only Haight and Ashbury Streets, but has spread out to include Stanyan Street, Golden Gate Park, and Buena Vista Park. As more and more young people flood the area, Haight-Ashbury cheerfully grows to accommodate and embrace them. Priscilla has never seen anything like it in her life.
Unlike the youthful inhabitants hanging out on the sidewalks, the houses are weary Victorians. Some of them are so dilapidated, Priscilla wonders how whole blocks have not been condemned. She pushes the thought from her mind. That is her upbringing talking. She wants to get away from thinking like that. She wants to be part of the great movement that is changing America.
She feels her grandfather’s adventurous spirit inside her. He faced challenges head-on. He wandered America until he met the love of his life. She would be like him—not like her timid parents back in New Mexico. Maybe she will meet her one true love as she walks down the street. Just like he did when he spotted Michaelina brushing her hair from a second story window.
She hears his voice before she sees him. A young man—possibly even younger than she; a boy, really—recites poetry on the steps of an old, rattletrap, run-down, purple and yellow Victorian. He has a beard almost to his chest and flowing locks sticking out from a top hat. When he finishes the poem, he takes a deep bow and extends his top hat for tips. He follows a well-dressed couple down the street, duck-walking with his hat extended, as his poor victims try to ignore him.
Priscilla laughs and the boy spins to look at her. He pantomimes staggering back and starts another poem. Actually, it’s a Shakespearean sonnet, one Priscilla had learned in school but thought was pretty hokey until this very moment.
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date—
Then he adds, “etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.”
Priscilla laughs and applauds. The boy bows and offers his hat, which has a few coins in it. Priscilla flushes. She starts digging in her patchwork bag for some money, but the boy puts his hand on hers.
“It’s all good, pretty lady,” he says, putting the change in his pocket and his hat on his head. “I don’t think I’ve seen you around before.”
“I just got here.”
“You have a pad?”
“A pad?”
“A place to hang out.”
“Not yet,” she says. “By the way, my name is Priscilla Wo—”
The boy cuts her off. “We don’t use last names here. Last names tie us to a society that we reject.”
“Oh,” Priscilla says, startled.
“My name is Cornwall,” he says gravely.
“Seriously?”
“Would I lie about a name like that?”
“Hey, Corny,” a young woman with a husky voice and wild hair yells from down the street. “We’re going to jam over at the Golden Noodle. You in?”
“I’ll catch up with you guys,” Cornwall calls.<
br />
He turns back to Priscilla.
“‘Corny’?” she asked. “You reject your last name but you let people call you ‘Corny’?”
“That nickname was thrust upon me.”
“You need to take destiny into your own hands,” Priscilla says.
“That’s why I’m here.”
“You should make people call you ‘Kernel.’ Like a kernel of corn.”
“Oh, a corn kernel!” he says. “I thought you meant a ‘colonel.’ You know, a military guy.”
“It could be ironic—a statement against the war,” Priscilla says. “And a less stupid nickname. Two birds with one stone.”
“I like your style!”
She looks around the street. “You have any recommendations about where I might crash?”
“I’m staying with my friends right up the street,” he said. “There’s always room for one more.”
She looks into his eyes. Maybe knowing you’ve found your true love at first sight is a family trait.
* * * *
Priscilla is on a mission; she races in and out of thrift stores until she finds what she is looking for. Corny is her co-conspirator, her partner-in-crime, the Clyde to her Bonnie. Priscilla is almost sad when she finds the perfect Civil War jacket that fits Corny’s lean body perfectly. He will command the attention of everyone who sees him in it; she is sure of it.
They celebrate by having a portrait of themselves taken in Civil War–era clothes.
She has everyone calling Cornwall “Colonel.” Within days Priscilla becomes somewhat of a local attraction herself. During her hunt for the Colonel’s jacket, she finds delicate baby outfits for Hilda. Business people coming to look at the flower children want pictures with Priscilla and Hilda to take back to the office.
She also finds she can make a little money drawing portraits of tourists—not exactly the pure art she is hoping to pursue, but the drawings help her be self-sufficient.
The Colonel and Priscilla are living in a condemned Victorian on Page Street. Around the corner lives a wild-haired girl, a singer called Janis Joplin and her boyfriend, “Country” Joe McDonald. Priscilla and the Colonel don’t subscribe to all the ideals of the days—“Tune in, turn on, drop out”—but Priscilla’s new friends, Janis and Joe, do it all. Drinking and drugs are the order of the day. It scares Priscilla a little, but in her mind, there is no denying Janis Joplin is a true artist.
Not everyone in town agrees. Listening to Janis break into song in Buena Vista Park, Priscilla overhears the naysayers.
“She’s gonna burn out.”
“She’s so stoned, I can’t believe she remembers the lyrics.”
“She wants to be a star, but with that face? I don’t think so.”
Priscilla tries not to admit that jealousy lives in The Haight, just like everywhere else.
“I’ve never heard anyone sing like you,” Priscilla says after watching Janis sing on a street corner to shocked onlookers.
“Yeah, well, I’m just doing my thing,” Janis says. “It’s like we’re in a freak show, right? Me with my singing and you with that doll.”
Priscilla doesn’t really see it that way, but Janis sees things others don’t.
Janis invites Priscilla, Hilda, and the Colonel to a concert in Monterey, a small town down the California coast. The concert is going to be called the “Monterey Pop Festival ’67.” Janis can’t believe she and Joe have been given an opportunity. She’s been struggling. She sees this as her big break with her band Big Brother and the Holding Company. Joe will perform with his band Country Joe and the Fish.
“We’re going to be on the same stage as Jefferson Airplane,” Janis says in awe.
Priscilla knows that Janis hungers for the success of the Airplane.
Janis and Priscilla go shopping and Janis buys a gold lamé mini-dress and matching bellbottoms. Priscilla lends her a pair of beige shoes with no backs.
Priscilla learns the fine art of hitchhiking with a partner. The guy hides in the bushes while the girl, in her tightest jeans or most transparent top, sticks out her thumb. When a car stops, the man leaps out, and the couple hopes for the best. More often than not, the driver of the car peels away, angry at either the duplicity or the fact that he isn’t going to be driving down the highway with a hot girl.
On their trip down the coast to Monterey, they catch a ride with Donny and Gigi, another couple heading to the concert.
“Got any weed?” Donny asks groggily as the Colonel and Priscilla throw their knapsacks into the backseat.
“No, man,” the Colonel says. “That’s not our scene.”
“That’s cool,” Donny says.
“What is your scene?” Gigi leers at the Colonel.
The Colonel looks out the window and doesn’t answer. Priscilla has been holding her breath and slowly exhales. The Colonel knows how to handle these situations. He was so worldy-wise.
Priscilla wishes they’d taken the bus.
Donny’s stoned driving makes for a more adventurous ride than Priscilla had wanted, but they manage to get to the concert unscathed. The concert is packed. Later, Priscilla will read that the fairground’s enclosed concert space was supposed to hold seven thousand people and there were closer to eighty-five hundred people. Priscilla holds the Colonel’s arm with one hand and clings tightly to Hilda with the other. The crowd makes her nervous.
But it’s a peaceful, loving crowd. Priscilla hears whispers of the hippie philosophy gaining traction. People are calling this “The Summer of Love.” Priscilla has never been so happy. She wishes she could share this with her parents, but they would never understand.
A smattering of applause goes up when Big Brother and the Holding Company takes the stage. Janis looks so tiny up there. Priscilla can tell she is nervous, but Janis struts around the stage like the picture of utter confidence. Priscilla feels badly, as the crowd continues to mill around, laughing and talking while Janis sings her heart out. The Colonel leans down and kisses Priscilla’s hair.
“Janis is tough,” he says. “Don’t worry about her. She’s going to blow this place apart.”
With each song, Priscilla notices the crowd paying more and more attention. For the fifth song, Janis starts to wail “It’s just like…like a ball and chain!” The crowd goes crazy, starts surging forward toward the stage. Someone behind her bumps Priscilla and Hilda flies from her arms.
“Hilda!”
The Colonel dives for the doll, but too late. When he returns Hilda to Priscilla’s outstretched arms, the doll is broken, her head cracked in two.
* * * *
Janis has the crowd mesmerized. Priscilla can feel herself being pushed forward as the audience tries to get closer and closer to the stage. Heartbroken at Hilda’s injury, Priscilla stops moving forward, trying to put the two pieces of the doll back together. It appears to be a clean break—nothing a little glue won’t fix.
“Maybe I’ll take Hilda to a doll maker,” Priscilla says. “Maybe even buy her a new eye.”
She looks up, smiling. She wants to thank the Colonel for rescuing her friend.
But he is gone.
In the seconds she looked away to tend to Hilda, the Colonel is swept away with the crowd.
Priscilla panics. The festival runs another full day. Priscilla and Hilda are alone. She spends every waking moment looking for the Colonel. But he has vanished.
She has no money and no way back to San Francisco. She has nowhere else to go. Her only hope is finding the Colonel.
With a sinking heart, she realizes she doesn’t even know the Colonel’s last name.
Janis’s band is the talk of the country, with Country Joe right behind her. Priscilla can’t get to her friends—after years of struggling, they are overnight sensations.
It takes her four days to get back to Haight-Ashbury.
If only she could glue her own heart back together.
She stands up and wipes her hands on the back of her jeans. She reaches in her pocket and pulls out a card. She walks to a payphone and peels a dime off the back of the card.
“Hi, Stan,” Priscilla says, trying not to cry. “I don’t know if you remember me, but you drove me from Sandstone to Gallup a few months ago.”
“Sure, I remember you,” Stan’s voice comes through the phone. “The girl with the doll.”
“That’s right,” Priscilla says.
She isn’t sure what to say to this man.
She opts for:
“Did you ever hear from your daughter?”
“We did,” Stan says. “Her mother got a call from her about a month ago. She was in Billings, Montana, of all places. She was okay, thank God. But winter was setting in and the dream was getting harder to maintain, I guess.”
“What did she have to say?” Priscilla asks.
“Not much. I told her I loved her. And her mother loved her.”
“Did she want to come home?”
“She did. But, you know, it wasn’t an easy call to make. She said she was afraid her mother and I wouldn’t want to talk to her.”
“But you did?”
“Honey, you’re very young. You don’t know this yet, but trust me—there isn’t a parent out there who doesn’t want to hear from his kid. She said she wanted to come home, but didn’t want to answer any questions.”
“And?”
“And we didn’t ask her any.”
Priscilla puts her head against the phone booth, hot tears flowing down her cheeks. Is Stan right? Would her parents want to hear from her after she’d disappeared?
“You still in San Francisco?” Stan asks.
“I am.”
“That’s funny. I’m about two hours from there,” he says jovially. “How is it going?”
Tiny House on the Road Page 20