It had been a wild summer. In fact it had been two wild, eye-opening, inspiring, world-awareness grasping summers in the city. The Summer of Love was over. I had led a hippie life, been involved in protests, the last in Oakland with folksinger Joan Baez, which had led to my only pair of handcuffs.
I had returned home to what had always been, and I now hoped she too realized, my true love. We began dating again. We “necked” at drive-in movies, the Starlight, and the Sunnyside. We danced and held each other tight under psychedelic light shows at the Rainbow Ballroom swaying to the same groups I had enjoyed at the Fillmore and Avalon in the city.
We strolled in velvet, grassy meadows, walked along the Fulton Mall playing in the fountains even in early November. We crawled through fences to walk and run, holding hands and laughing, in country pastures.
She had invited me to her family’s Thanksgiving dinner in 1967. Her father, Ted, and mother Grace, welcomed me into their home. Her younger sister, Paula, giggled when she caught us kissing in the hallway. Older sister, Charlotte, smiled at me as she helped in the kitchen. It would be the last time that year I would see her family...