The Summer of '70

Somehow we came up just shy of having much autonomy in the Summer of '69. But we'd made a pact to make up for it in the Summer of '70. This is OUR season in the sun. This is one of OUR stories.


My girlfriend, Tina, pulls up in front of my house. I yell to my mom that I'm leaving. She yells back my curfew. I pretend not to hear. This summer, Tina's driving a turquoise, '63 Comet convertible from her father's used car lot. Every summer she gets a different car. We are two seventeen year old chicks heading out on a Saturday night. As my butt hits the seat, its black vinyl spanks me with searing heat. My hand, singed by the metal door frame, wincingly pulls it closed. It's nearly 7 p.m. and still crazy hot. But we look cool. We know it.


Our long, blond, ironed-straight-parted-in-the-middle hair, blazing in the sun, flying in the wind, we hit the freeway. It just opened and it is our playground. If we take the cloverleaf on-ramps in just the right order, we can circle all of them and shoot off the fourth one headed west and for town. Our cotton, paisley dresses, rippling as we cruise, fan short, hot, Coppertoned thighs. We head downtown to the AC. The good ol' Artic Circle. The burger joint of choice along the weekend cruise. Too early for much action--only a few people are hanging out. After ordering a couple of Cokes and hopping back into the convertible, we make a quick lap around town. Too quiet yet to command our attention so we head due west toward Whiskeytown Lake.


On the radio, KRDG's blasting Grand Funk Railroad's, I'm your Captain. The song lasts most of the way to the lake. The sun, like a giant, orange, one-eyed ogre, moves lower in the sky. Our round, John Lennon sunglasses protect us from its blinding assault. Turning left off the highway, we spin toward the back side of the lake. Parking, peeling our sweaty thighs off the plastic seat, we get out of the car. We make a quick hike of getting down to our favorite, hidden spot by the water. The sun loses its fight with the rise of the mountains. The mountains grace us with the relief of their shade. Sitting on large, sun warmed rocks, we flip our leather sandals to the sand. Feet dangle in the water. Wheat Straw rolling papers are pulled out. Seeds and stems are picked out of the baggie of Mexican weed and saved for leaner times. A big fattie gets rolled.


Sitting in silence, we finish sipping the harsh smoke of the yellow bomber. The copper wire and beaded roach clip, ceremoniously affixed to the last, wee bit of paper wrapped herb, gives us a few more hits. We witness the day flashing its last, green-gold ray of death. Extinguished as completely as the joint. What now? Find a party? Go to the drags? Find some music? The drive-in? Yeah, tonight we'll go to the drive-in. The Woodstock movie's out. We were too young and lived too far away to go to the festival last year. But even out here, on the west coast, we had felt the ripples of excitement and were stoked to see the movie.


Sandals get put back on feet. Feet head for the convertible. We make the ride back to town under the shadow of the mountains while taking in the Fresh Air of Quicksilver Messenger Service. Just in time to make the show, we head for the silver screened giant. Making a snail's roll through the line to the neon lit, moth swarmed ticket booth, we pull out our $1.50 per car load and find a place to park. Once giving the metal speaker on the post a home on the Comet's partially rolled up window, we head off to the snack bar. A munchie run is the first priority. Abba Zaba's, popcorn, Junior Mints, red licorice and a couple of fruit punches later, we head back to the car. Second priority...a potty stop.


We are ready for the movie and what a movie it is! Jimi Hendrix, Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young, and Country Joe McDonald among many, many others. The Bum Trip Centers, set up by Abbie Hoffman, are filled with victims of the "not so good, brown acid" floating around. After the movie, riding high on its excitement, we head back out to the lake. Talking all the way. We had never seen that many musicians at one event. We had never seen crowds that big, stages that big, nor towers and speakers that big. No one had. And in the nearly 100-degrees-at-midnight heat, we pull those summer dresses off over our heads and kick off our sandals...again. Skinny dipping our bodies into the cool-warm layers of water, we melt grainy, salty, dried sweat from our skin. Gliding over the glassy layer of moonlit water and bouncing off of the surrounding mountains back at us, come our cheers: "Give me an 'F'." "Give me a 'U'." Give me a 'C'." "Give me a..."





The last day of summer in the northern hemisphere, has just given way to Autumn. As we poise in the balance of the dark and light of this equinox, in Redding, our temperatures are still rising above triple digit marks. It is hard to believe that we have crossed an invisible line marking a new chapter of the year. In thinking about the last days of summer, this memory keeps rising like a blurry, heat wave covered image. Memories of spending summers with my friend, Tina. For several years, our every Saturday night started and ended this same way. It makes me feel good to remember her when she was young and happy. She is dead now and her ending was not so fun or pretty. But that is a story for a darker part of the year.