The Empire Page

I live in New York. I wear a shirt and tie to work every day, and I waddle through the labyrinth of subways and cement. But I miss the hippies.
   

As I put away my scarf and my mittens, and I begin to see the scattered foliage of the five boroughs turn spring-green, I think back to the summers I spent working in national parks in California. I think of those bedraggled park employees that made up such a big part of my social life out West. And as I now walk to the corner bodega and stare at the last traces of ice melting onto the sidewalk, I do miss them.
   

Did I envy the lifestyle of those hippies? Maybe. Many people would look at me, with my long, scraggly sideburns, worn sandals, and lax attitude, and size me up as part of the H crowd. There may have been some similarities but then there were also some heavy differences that, despite our summer camaraderie, did not permit me and the hippies to always break bread together. Still, as Gotham slowly goes from ice to green—a minute but inspiring green—I think back to my wide-eyed experience working in a culture so different, and especially to my many unshaven friends.
   

And then I usually remind myself of the things that ultimately set us apart. Marijuana was—and probably still is--the great national park pastime, and anyone who has worked in that environment will tell you that.  I have worked in two national parks and on virtually every day I either saw or smelled the great cannabis. I had been around marijuana before, of course, so none of it was a big deal.
       

Except when it came to those that just couldn’t accept the fact that I didn’t smoke. Some of my bedraggled comrades would become paranoid when they were around “the guy that didn’t smoke,” becoming all skittish and leery, and constantly looking at me with suspicion. There was even one rumor that I was working for the government, on a secret assignment at the park to see who was smoking, something that I still laugh at when I think about it.
     

On top of the pot, there was the unending anger and cynicism at society and any notion of the “system.” When it came to discussing such things, I, as a Southern conservative and political science major, was an easy target. I can tell you that no true hippie that I knew ever had any aspirations to work for the Secret Service or the Department of State. Being part of Generation X, I had grown up around such skepticism and mistrust, but for me, nowhere have these emotions been more evident than in the national park scene. The anger and the poison of the hippie invective in those California hills would make any protest at Berkeley or Columbia pale in comparison.
     

No, I didn’t always agree with my wily colleagues from the wilderness, and unfortunately, some of my hippie friends simply couldn’t accept that. That didn’t stop us, though, from hiking the Sierra Nevadas together, or from playing Ultimate out in the meadows. And as I now approach the milestone age of forty, it doesn’t stop me from missing them even more. The clock and the calendar have had a deceiving way of zipping on by, and before I know it, I am married and living in the megalopolis of New York. But as I walk down my Brooklyn sidewalk and see the first signs of spring, I think about those summers.
     

I think about the sweet stench of Sequoia pines blended with the ubiquitous presence of patchouli and pot. I think about those ganged-up conversations, about those late night campfire jam sessions, me and my djembe, my buddy Dan and his acoustic guitar. The infinite breadth of the stars stamped in the black sky, and the relaxed freedom, as thick as a London fog, all around.
     

And who knows what can happen upon retirement, when the wife is out lobbying for women’s rights and our daughter is away at college? I just might make a summer cameo out at one of those parks. You can find me peddling lemonade from one of those vendor carts, defending the government’s latest policy on national security while some
veteran parkie grimaces and shakes his head. I’ll be the old guy asking if anyone remembers my old roommate Floyd from Fresno. Anybody?
     

Happy spring.