Joining the fray, with a historian's bent on all things "Sixties" related, especially hippies then and now. Except I hate that term -- "the 60s" -- and the many false coherencies it signifies for how popular consciousness engages with social struggle. The Movement - nah. The counterculture - oh please. The Vietnam Era- maybe. Anyway, now that the new Holy Father is making the culture wars of student dissent c. 1968 part of the world's theological vision, its time to join the world of Blogic.
We used to go to Stowe, Vermont to ski for a week or two every winter during my later teen years. Dad rented someone's time-share condominium, and Mom would do the flatlanders' Nordic skiing at the Von Trapp Family Lodge while my sister and I played daredevil games on the bumps and chutes on the Mountain.
We ate a lot of fondue, got extra Irish ruddy in the weather, mediated that fine line between fashion and warmth, and tried to keep our toes warm without the benefit of the brandy everyone else seemed to be toting about. It was the only time of the year I ever actually ENJOYED hot chocolate!
For some reason, we were in the same person's house every year. And they had an 8-track tape player, with about a dozen albums to choose from. Three Dog Night was the one that tickled my and my sister's fancy, and we played it over and over and over and over again.
Someone sent me a YouTube clip recently, and for this current transition... its just so perfect:
"Wash away my troubles, wash away my pain, with the rain from Shamballa Wash away my sorrow, wash away my shame, with the rain of Shamballa..."
Heart-shaped rocks often appear at my feet. I sometimes enjoy dancing like a wild warrior woman. I love teaching college and am writing three books at once. Being a stepmother is the hardest thing I've ever done (besides trying to finish a dissertation).
