True Believer!

In the Beginning

The 1960s were a time of great awakening. The problem with those years is mainly that they’ve suffered from their success. Like the 1920s, they’ve become cartoonish satires of what they were – incredibly creative, varied, and alternatively, the best and worst of times. Don’t believe me, watch the Television shows and movies.

Part of the problem lies in the fact that there was not just one experience. Experience 1965 on Boston’s Beacon Hill or Cambridge’s Harvard Square, and you come away with one impression. In a more conservative community, the experience was very different. In the more conservative areas, the cultural revolution happening in the “hip” areas was more like the sound of very distant thunder – the storm was far, far away.

Hitting the Road

As a Pius Itinerant, I had to be careful. I traveled in both worlds. Saturday morning, I was departing Boston for a frolicsome detour. But on Sunday morning, I was at a small, conservative church hundreds of miles away. How did this happen? As a sort of Folkie guitarist/ songwriter, I had wound up the evening before at an obscure church run coffeehouse. I took a fancy to a lovely nineteen-something woman with flowing red hair and a knockout smile. On the spur of the moment, I composed a few verses about her smile. About an hour later, she told her Daddy, the minister, that it was true love. I was invited to stay over in a spare room ( on the opposite side of the house from the darling redhead).

Breakfast was early because the entire family had to prepare for sacred services. Charlene (she of the red hair) asked me if I knew any hymns, and I replied that I could do a few folk religious tunes, like “This Little Light of Mine.”

That’s how I wound up singing at services that morning. The invitation to stay for dinner followed. Dave, Charlene’s Dad, and the minister mentioned that a friend was hiring, so on Monday morning, I found myself sweeping up at Harlow’s Stationery store (Harlow was a member of Dave’s congregation). There was something very peaceful about the community, the job, the Church, and Charlene.

God’s Plan

About three weeks into this idle of mine, Birth Control poked its ugly head in. Dave, his wife, and Charlene did not believe in it. Babies came as part of the natural course of things, and it was a sin to interfere with God’s plan. I made the mistake of thinking that this was a subject that could be discussed. Wrong. That evening, right after supper, Dave convened a special congregational meeting of Elders to read scripture over me and educate me as to how God’s plan would unfold for Charlene and me. The wedding will be soon. Leaving the living room afterwards. I spotted a beaming Charlene pointing to the spot on her hand where a wedding band would go, and rubbing her tummy. I felt suddenly and severely ill.

On the Road Again

OK. I am not especially pleased with my actions. Nineteen, and not ready to be a father, and unprepared for much responsibility, let alone marriage. I just wanted to get away, as fast as possible. Going with the flow in this situation was not a good choice. I left a farewell note. Love and admire you, but not ready to be a daddy!

That’s why, at about 1 a.m., I was on the road. Staying in a room on the opposite side of the house from Charlene and her family had turned out to be a plus – when I went a runner, it was easy to do.

Getting rides was tough, and I didn’t arrive at the Folkie Palace on Beacon Hill till late on Wednesday. That evening I told my story to the convened wisdom of folkies of all persuasions, Catholic, Buddhist, and so on. Most felt that I was wise to have declined a deepening relationship with the lovely Charlene, but felt that it was dishonest to have done it that way. The Monk, our failed monastic, felt that I should seclude myself in prayer until I could both forgive myself and Charlene’s family for the overly zealous situation. Most of us did not understand what he was talking about. Whereupon he began a second explanation more arcane than the first. I just sighed in relief and started running progressions on the guitar.

What goes around comes around

About three years later, I was walking through Harvard Square when a redheaded beauty tackled me. Charlene. From the look I gave her, she must have thought that I feared that she had pursued me. But no, she pointed to the wedding ring and the sizable baby bump. We were soon joined by her husband, Carl. Was I free that evening for dinner? They were on a Mission to the Boston area, and would love to renew the friendship. No? What a shame – and let’s get together soon for dinner!

We seem to live in a time where the cultural divides have hardened. There is little communication and less flow across battle lines. Charlene, Carl, and I could agree to disagree and respect our choices in life. But now to disagree is to commit a heresy.

So wait. Maybe it’s not the sixties that are cartoonish satires. Maybe the cartoonish satires are the years we are currently living. Perhaps the people who point to the old days as golden are right; it was indeed a golden age.

This is a fictionalized account of actual events.