Summer of 62

The day I came home from camp, my mother picked me up in her new Austin Healey Sprite. It was the summer of 1962, I was thirteen, and I couldn’t wait to brag about losing my virginity at camp. If I  recall It came out more like a near confession than an expression of bravado.


She switched gears and looked at my face for proof (she could see a lie on my face in the dark). She nodded once hard—it appeared the nod was to herself—and said, “Great, that’s not a conversation I was looking forward to” (another gear).


“Okay, Romeo, listen up: Use your elbows and share the wet spot, and you’ll do all right.”


My turn to nod, and then I tested: “This means I can smoke now, right?” Another gear in silence, which meant “no.”



The only other advice I remember my mom giving me was not to trust anyone who doesn’t like bacon.

Summer's Sin

The echo in the canyon

If you look back and imagine an idyllic time, pause. Perhaps we all overlooked, or pretended there wasn't a chink in the armor until it showed up. Going back to that idyllic place without recognizing how and why we are where we are just creates another generation of ostriches. Hiding behind or defending your political initial only exacerbates the echo in the canyon.

Fire sunset