My Beautiful Hippie

by Janet Nichols Lynch

  “Who can wreck spaghetti?” asked Dan.

  “It’s not as easy as it looks,” said Dad. “If you overcook the noodles, they turn to glue.”

  “Which is why we’re going to be a half hour early. So I can oversee the operation,” said Mom. Poor Denise. She didn’t have a chance in hell of running her own show.

  Denise greeted us at the door of the tiny walk-up apartment, her face glowing with pride. Beneath her apron she wore an empire-waisted, floor-length floral-print cotton gown, with long sleeves that were puffed at the shoulders, a new fashion called a granny dress. Her long hair was drawn back by a leather headband across her forehead, and beneath her hem, pale pink ballet slippers peeked out.

  “How can you even walk in that thing?” Dad kissed her on the cheek and handed her a huge fruit basket as a housewarming present.

  “Where’re your real shoes?” Mom asked. “Those tight things will give you corns.”

  “Something smells great,” said Dan.

  Jerry came out of the back of the apartment. Dad extended his hand to shake, and his eyes popped when Jerry hugged him. Jerry hugged Mom and me, but Dan stepped behind me, safely out of man-hugging range. Jerry wore hip-hugger white denim bell-bottoms and a fringed suede vest with his usual Oxford button-down shirt and wing-tip shoes. During the three weeks since the wedding his hair had grown even shaggier. I wanted to laugh at his half-straight, half-hip look.

  I’d been to the apartment the week before the wedding, when Mom was helping Denise furnish it and set up housekeeping. Now it seemed more cramped than ever, with fondue pots, chip-and-dip layered bowls, vases, crystal ashtrays, and silver serving pieces covering every surface in the living room. It would be a tight fit for the six of us to crowd around the kitchen table.

  “What can I do to help, Denise?”

  “Not a thing, Mother. Everything’s about ready. Come into the living room and Jerry will make you a highball.”

  Mom turned a full circle in the center of the tiny kitchen. There was no evidence of meal preparations, except that on the clean counter stood a tossed salad, a loaf of sourdough bread on a cutting board, and an iced chocolate cake. “What about the—”

  “The lasagna is in the oven,” said Denise, bouncing on the balls of her feet.

  “Lasagna! Oh, boy!” said Dan, clapping his hands. “Mom never makes that anymore.” He followed Dad into the living room, where Denise had set out chips and dips.

  “Lasagna is so complicated,” said Mom. “You shouldn’t have gone to the trouble, Denise. How did you ever learn to make it?”

  “I just followed the recipe.”

  “Recipes don’t teach you how to cook. You need someone who . . .” Mom’s voice trailed off as she gazed at the table set with an avocado-green tablecloth to match Denise’s new Desert Rose Franciscan dinnerware. “A tablecloth and cloth napkins? Candles, too? You shouldn’t have gone to the trouble just for us.”

  “She uses them every night,” Jerry said proudly, ringing Denise’s waist with his arm. “They’re so much nicer than place mats and paper napkins. And candles are so romantic.” He kissed her right in front of us. “Oh, honey, run down to our garage locker, will you? Get the other bourbon for us.”

  Denise swung the apron over her head and hiked up her dress, ready to take two flights of stairs in her ballet slippers. Her exit from the apartment gave Mom the opportunity to peek into the oven at the bubbling lasagna. She looked over her shoulder and hastily salted the dish before snapping the oven shut. “Those recipes never say to boil the noodles a few minutes first,” she told me. “We’ll be chewing all night. I just hope we can get it down and spare Denise’s feelings.”

  It was the best lasagna I’d ever eaten, maybe because Denise used real ricotta, while Mom cut corners with cottage cheese.

  Over coffee, the men in the living room argued about the U.S. getting out of the United Nations, Dan in favor of the idea and Dad and Jerry against it, while Mom, helping Denise with the dishes in the kitchen, tried to convince her that ironing the bedsheets and Jerry’s boxer shorts was unnecessary.

  “That’s the way Jerry likes them,” said Denise. “That’s the way his mother and his aunt did things.”

  “Humph.” Mom reared back her chin.

  I had no position in either debate, so I slipped away to the bathroom. It was decorated with furry pink throw rugs and a matching furry pink toilet seat cover with just-for-show pink shell-shaped soaps in an abalone dish.

  Coming out of the bathroom, I noticed the looming double bed that nearly filled the only bedroom. Three weeks ago, my sister and I had lain side by side in matching twin beds, and now she slept in a full bed with a man. He probably saw her naked. She probably saw him. They did it. What did it feel like? Did she like it? Love it? Couldn’t get enough? I’d never know. Denise wasn’t one to talk about such things.

  I was embarrassed to think such thoughts and avoided looking at Jerry when I returned to the living room. I picked up the Time magazine with the Generation Gap cover and retreated to the corner of the room. I didn’t have to read an article to know that my parents’ generation and my generation were like two alien nations who didn’t speak the same language but shared the same planet. I just wanted to go home and get my itchy skirt and tight girdle off.

  In the car, Mom commented on Denise cluttering up her counter with her mushroom-patterned flour, sugar, and tea canister set instead of keeping them in the cupboard. “And she’ll soon realize doing up a tablecloth and napkins is just too much work.”

  “The lasagna was great,” said Dan.

  Mother patted her bosom with the heel of her fist. “I just hope I don’t get heartburn from all those onions in the sauce.”

  “Coffee was good,” said Dad. “Plenty strong.”

  Mother glared over at him. “I suppose mine is too weak.”

  Suddenly we realized the trouble Mom was in and rushed to her defense.

  “Your spaghetti sauce is a lot better,” said Dan.

  “And the lasagna was too salty,” said Dad.

  “Not salty enough,” I said.

  “And the cake was obviously from a mix,” said Dad. “Can’t beat your cakes from scratch, dear.”

  “And that tablecloth was ostentatious,” I said.

  “Austin who?” asked Dad. He liked to be funny like that.

  “Now, now, don’t you all be so hard on Denise,” said Mom with a prim smile. “Setting up housekeeping isn’t easy. She’ll find her way. And she and Jerry seem very happy.”

  “That’s all that matters,” said Dad.

  Mom nodded but couldn’t resist having the last say. “That husband of hers needs a haircut if he ever expects the professional world to take him seriously.”

  Chapter

  Seven

  Whenever I wanted to do something I knew my mother wouldn’t allow, I quietly bought or collected the materials and waited for her to leave the house. One afternoon when she was at her garden club luncheon, I went out into the backyard to tie-dye a T-shirt, following the directions I found in Teen magazine. I had bought a plain white Fruit of the Loom small men’s T-shirt, which I wadded up in sections and secured with rubber bands. Then I put another rubber band a little farther up on each clump. Next I mixed up packages of yellow, red, and violet Rit dye and put each color in a spray bottle. I sprayed the different colors over each part of the T-shirt that was sectioned off by the rubber bands. Finally I cut the rubber bands, and out came groovy sunbursts of color all over the T-shirt. It was really fun and easy, and I was proud of my creation.

  Just as I was hanging it up on the clothesline to dry, Mom appeared at the French doors, home from her luncheon. She crossed her arms and yelled, “You can’t be trusted home alone for two little hours, Joanne. If you think you’re going out in public in hippie clothes, you’ve got another thing coming.”

  When she went back into the house, I smiled to myself. I’d gotten my tie-dye T-shirt, and she couldn’t stop me from wearing it
.

  * * *

  Two days later when Mom went to Safeway for her week’s grocery shopping, I put on my tie-dye T-shirt, my bell-bottoms, sandals, love beads, and peace button. All the cool girls were buying their Levi’s in the men’s department because they didn’t make jeans for girls that rode on the hips. Of course my mother wouldn’t let me do this, but no one knew that beneath my tie-dye T-shirt the waistband of my homemade bell-bottoms hit me two inches above my belly button. I had washed my long, brown hair over and over so that it was straight and flyaway. I applied colorless lip gloss, blusher, and a hint of mascara on individual lashes so it all looked natural. Then I went roaming around the neighborhood looking for Martin.

  I found him on Hippie Hill, a sloping, broad meadow in Golden Gate Park, not far from the Stanyan Street entrance, bordered on two sides with eucalyptus. Dozens of flower children were sitting in clusters, lying back sunning themselves, rapping, and smoking weed. It would not seem odd or forward for me to join any of these groups, even if I didn’t know a single person among them.

  Martin was sitting off alone, playing his guitar. He paused in his singing to smile up at me and say, “Peace.” He seemed happy to see me.

  I sat cross-legged opposite him. “Go on. I want to hear the rest of the song.” It was one I’d never heard before, about revolving things: windmills, carousels, wheels, and the earth. When he finished, I clapped. “That’s beautiful! Who recorded it?”

  “No one. I wrote it.”

  “Wow! You should record it. You could be as famous as Gus.”

  He laughed. “I don’t want to be famous.”

  “What? Everyone wants to be famous!”

  “Why?”

  That simple question stumped me for a moment. For recognition. For acceptance. To prove to your family and the people you knew that you were a somebody. To prove to yourself that you were good at something. “Well, I want to be famous.”

  “Then that’s how we’re different, Joni.”

  His words stung. I didn’t want Martin and me to have any differences. I felt ashamed, like I was an egomaniac just because I wished for success. “Well, then, what do you want to do with your life?”

  “Do with it?” He blinked incredulously. “Why, live it!”

  “But what do you want to accomplish?”

  “Not a blessed thing. Ambition destroys lives.”

  “Not in the arts.”

  “Of course in the arts!” His brow creased in agitation. “Believe me, I know what I’m talking about. Max is a playwright, and Vivian is a sculptor.”

  “Did Max ever get anything produced on Broadway?”

  “Maybe off-off-off-Broadway. He just writes gibberish.”

  “Do you mean theater of the absurd?”

  “No, I mean gibberish.”

  “Come on, Martin. Everyone wants to achieve something.”

  He straightened his spine and struck his chest, proclaiming, “Then I shall become a master liver of life!” We laughed together, and I was relieved that things had lightened up. He gave me an appreciative look. “That’s a groovy shirt.”

  “Oh, thanks. I made it!”

  “You look good in it.” He extended his guitar toward me. “Here. If you’re gonna be famous, you better practice. Play me something.”

  I shrank away. “Oh, I just sing and play the guitar for fun. Classical piano is what I work at.”

  “And it’s not fun?”

  “I love it. It’s my life, but I wouldn’t call it fun. Hmm . . . fulfilling, I guess.”

  “Heavy.” He set his guitar in my lap. “Let’s see what you can do with this.”

  I thought of Candy mocking my performance at Denise’s wedding. “This girl in my school says I sound like a mosquito and a bullfrog.”

  “You must have a hell of a range.”

  That made me laugh. I wasn’t at all nervous playing for Martin. I began a simple bass-chord-chord accompaniment pattern leading into “Little Boxes.” It’s about how houses all look the same, and the people in the houses are all the same, too, going to college, golfing, and drinking their martinis dry. As I played and sang, I looked into Martin’s eyes. They crinkled at the corners when Malvina Reynolds’s clever lyrics amused him.

  “You are, too, good! I can tell you feel music deep down.” He pressed his hand against his sternum. “It just pours out.”

  His praise embarrassed me. Embarrassment made me blush, and blushing embarrassed me more. I commented on the song. “I like it because it’s against conformity.”

  “You’re against conformity?”

  Wasn’t that obvious by what I was wearing and what I talked about? “Well, yeah.”

  “You’re not going to grow up, get married, buy the car and the house with the white picket fence, and have two-point-two children?”

  Of course I wanted to have a family, but way in the future. Martin was grinning at me like he had caught me in an inconsistency. “I don’t know anybody with a white picket fence.”

  He laughed at me, but not in a mean way.

  “Well, don’t you want to get married and have kids someday?” I asked.

  “Nope.”

  “Oh.” My heart seemed to plunge to my stomach. “Not ever?”

  “Never, ever. I’m going to be as free as a bird.” He reclaimed his guitar. “Let’s sing together, Joni. What will it be?”

  I blurted the title of the first song that came to my mind. “ ‘Blowin’ in the Wind’?”

  “Beautiful. Want to take harmony or melody?”

  “Melody.”

  Martin didn’t sing a third below me; instead, his bell-like tenor soared above my melody in an improvised, free-flowing countermelody. In her robust alto, Mary sometimes sang a part lower than Peter and Paul, and I liked the idea that the girl didn’t always have to sing the high part. Our voices blended well. I wanted to sit there forever, singing with Martin and basking in his warm glow.

  “Joanne! What are you doing?” growled a gruff male voice, which I recognized before I even turned around. “Get home, now!”

  Martin stopped strumming his guitar, and we both stared up at Dan, with Pete beside him.

  “Why? I’m not doing anything wrong. Leave me alone.” I turned back to Martin, rolling my eyes in exasperation.

  Dan attempted to lift me by the armpits, and when I bore down, he began dragging me away. I kicked at him a few times, but not wanting to make a scene in front of Martin, I stopped resisting. I stood and twisted free of Dan’s grip. “You’re not the boss of me.”

  “Peace, brother,” said Martin.

  “I’m not your brother, you filthy hippie!” yelled Dan, stooping to flex his bicep in Martin’s face. “I’m her brother, out to protect her from degenerates like you. Stay away from my sister or I’ll have to pound you!” Dan gripped my upper arm and yanked me along. I was so humiliated I couldn’t bear to look back at Martin, even to say good-bye.

  “Are you in trouble, Joanne,” said Dan. “Wait till I tell Mom where I found you and who you were with. Are you crazy? You could’ve been raped.”

  “Man, I don’t think so,” said Pete. “Those hippie chicks put out, like, all the time. Like, without a struggle,” he clarified. Pete was funny like that.

  “That right?” asked Dan. “Maybe we could disguise ourselves as hippies, go to a love-in, and get some ourselves.” Dan always talked about sex as a dirty deed with an anonymous partner, rather than an expression of love between two people who cared for each other. “We can get some crabs or the clap. That’s what those filthy hippie chicks put out.”

  I stopped short, darted behind Dan, and gave him a shove. My adrenaline must’ve been raging, because I pushed him so hard he stumbled forward, nearly falling on his face.

  “You little bitch!” He grabbed my hair, wrapped it around his fist, and gave it a painful yank. I kicked him in the shin so that he had to let go of my hair to rub his leg and hop around. He raised an open palm to slap my face, and I cringed, bracing myse
lf for the sting, which didn’t come. Pete had caught his arm midair.

  “Cool it, you guys.” Pete didn’t understand knock-down, drag-out sibling rivalry, having only one brother, a twenty-four-year-old Mongoloid who filled in his Flintstones coloring book and made jewelry boxes with Popsicle sticks and Elmer’s glue.

  Waiting for the light at Stanyan Street, I glanced behind me, fearful that Martin had followed us out of the park. What would he think of me? I glanced down at my peace button. I glared up at Dan through narrowed eyes. “I’m telling Mom you called me a bitch.”

  The light changed, and we started across the street.

  “Don’t, Joanne.” Dan’s eyes slid nervously from side to side. What he really meant was don’t tell Dad. Not even I wished the consequences of that on Dan.

  “Then don’t tell Mom where you found me.”

  “I got to. She sent me looking for you, and she’ll want to know. I ain’t gonna lie for you.”

  “You don’t have to tell her if she doesn’t ask.”

  “All right, deal.”

  As we walked up Frederick Street, Dad was just driving home from work. He got out of the car to open the gate to our driveway. His tie was loosened and his face was flushed, indicating he’d had a hard day. This was going to be bad. He drove through the gate, and Dan rushed up to shut it for him. Pete raised his hand in farewell and continued up the street toward his house on West Buena Vista. Watching two Donnellys fight was scary enough; four was more than he could handle.

  Usually when Dad got home, all he wanted to do was sit at the kitchen table, read the Chronicle, drink his beer, chuckle over Peanuts, and mutter “Hmmm,” “Oh, yeah?” and “Is that so?” while Mom talked a blue streak about her day. Dad had retired “That’s good” from his repertoire of comments, after saying it once caused Mom to bellow, “Dick, you’re not even listening to me.”

  Dan shoved me through the back door like a prison guard roughing up his charge. “You’ll never guess where I found her,” he announced to our parents. “Hippie Hill!”

  “Dan called me bitch!” I shouted.