Okay, minus the three years that I was in the army.
Why is this significant? Possibly it is just as ridiculous as the fad of long pointed shoes in European royal courts. Oh, yes, that was a thing.
It got so bad that strings were applied to the tips in order to pull them up so that the person could walk.
They were called poulaines, or Crakows, for the reason that the style may have started in Poland. They were banned in England in 1465. It may have been a class statement, one couldn’t walk very far in poulaines, and you certainly couldn’t do manual labor. It was something rich people wore- the richer, the longer and pointy-er.
In the Sixties there was a fashion push that first started in England. The Beatles were a rock and roll band from Liverpool that at first simply combed their hair differently. Eventually they had their hair cut in the “bowl” style. It went along with the Nehru collar, tight tapered slacks, and pointed Demi boots with an inside the ankle zipper. It was an entire look copied by thousands of fans worldwide.
As the English invasion widened, the American rockers lost their Pomade and their flat-top ducktails, with the waterfall front, and went to a softer forehead sweep that was popular with California surfers. Still short in the back though.
So was it the music that drove the style? Yes, and no.
Wearing longer hair was a statement that signified certain ideas that were non-conformist, even if most people couldn’t articulate this.
I wish it was so clear and highly ethical. I believe though personal experience that the hair was perfect for the eruption of teenage forehead acne.
Sure, it may appear on the nose, cheek, or chin, but the forehead was one thing that could be covered.
The other thing is Alfred E. Neumann was very popular. It was a teenage comic book called “Mad Magazine”, with Alfred as the star, with his gap toothed smile, his freckles and his portruding ears. Big dumbo ears.
The hair didn’t have to be too long, just long enough to fill the gap between the skull and the ear.
It was an attempt to look better, it was as basic as how to attract girls, without knowing exactly what to do with them if it worked.
Not cutting hair also spread your allowance farther. I got $5.00 every two weeks for hair cuts. I kept the money but didn’t get the hair cut.
So why did it get to be such a big thing that it went to the Supreme Court several times?
I think there were influencers that saw this fad as a label for newly plowed ground. Teachers could suggest “Animal Farm” or “Fahrenheit 451”, cranky uncles could talk about mountain men and pirates.
Weirdly, classical music was often called “long-haired” music, but rarely listened by long hairs
This blog is an attempt to defeat a sort of blackmail. Over forty years ago, my wife and I thought it would be a good thing to record our thoughts about the world because we were expecting our first child. I had been a parent before but tens years had passed and there were a lot of changes. Plus, I thought I was pretty wise at the age of 30.
Maybe it was the wine or just inflated ego, but I went on a rant about the longhairs, the jocks, the nerds, and the thugs. Of course this was in high school so there was always conflict, and a well defined pecking order. In the early years no one exactly noticed, but by 1965, it was clear that the long-hairs were fair game. Even the nerds gave us the cold shoulder.
Apparently the tape is hilarious and damning at the same time. My daughter has the only copy and threatens to play it at family gatherings. I’m not sure what I said, so I can’t refute anything, but I’m assuming that I simply told the truth as I saw it, and still see it now.
Writing this out takes away the power of a surprised playing of the tape.
Long hair may have started as a fad, but it was found useful to coverup some of the anxieties of young men. It also acted like a badge or uniform, so that like-minded folks could gather together.
Unfortunately I did not find that some of the assumed likemindedness was real or helpful. Marijuana wasn’t very popular yet, it wasn’t even called weed. Normally it was a joint or “Mary Jane”. As if that was a code that Narcs couldn’t figure out. Oh yeah, and paranoia was rampant, but the few users were mostly long-hairs. I didn’t smoke, so I must have been a Narc. High school is filled with drama.
Day to day living was a lot like combat, long hours of tedious guard duty, with spurts of violence, and running. No knives, no guns, just kicks and punches. I once got hit so hard that a molar cut the inside of my cheek. For months I had a purple knot as if I was sucking on a jawbreaker.
To make this all stop, all I had to do is get a haircut. It was a great disappointment to my father, he asked, and even tried to bribe me, but I stood firm. Then something happened with him. We had gone on a long family vacation to his hometown in the Midwest. The first day we drove downtown for a walking tour. He pointed out the movie theatre, and the malt shop. And we spent some time looking in at the Bakery where the best apple pie was sold.
Continuing the walk towards the city park we witnessed an accident. Well, it wasn’t an accident yet, but there was screeching tires and blue smoke. Behind the blue smoke there were three pairs of arms, maybe more, all with index fingers pointing at me as if had just landed from Mars. Not a lot of words, just open mouths. My father asked if this kind of thing happened often? I said no, “they usually just jump out and start running at me”.
He never asked me to cut my hair again.
I will say that opportunities came, and some never showed. I couldn’t get a normal teenage job. I couldn’t be seen by the public and I couldn’t even be trusted by the public. Dope crazed hippies was soon a label that the media adopted. Herb Caen, a columnist for the San Francisco Chronicle, had coined the label “Beatniks” for the Beat Culture of the 1950s, and in the late 1960s he coined the term “Hippie” for the long-haired hipsters. We hated it, we didn’t use it, and we even had a funeral service where we buried the last hippie (a bearded manakin) in the Panhandle of Golden Gate Park.
So that meant I didn’t have the rewards of a solid work ethic. I never got the chance. I was encouraged to read the Beat Poets, but not Robert Frost. I didn’t read Hemingway, but got immersed in Henry Miller. I hitch-hiked around the country with either “The Way of Zen”, or Kerouac’s “On the Road”, sticking out of my back pocket. In later years it was Walt Whitman’s “Leaves of Grass”. You are what you read!
It’s true that anyone could read these, but they were defined as “hip” by some.
Was this some sort of nefarious plot? To ruin young Americans with drugs, offending books, and political riots? There are people on both sides who see this possibility. I’m certain about the pimples and the big ears.
And of course in 1969 there was the musical “Hair”, and here are the lyrics of the title song…
She asks him why
“Why I’m a hairy guy?”
I’m hairy noon and nighty-night night
My hair is a fright
I’m hairy high and low
But don’t ask me why
‘Cause he don’t know
It’s not for lack of bread
Like the Grateful Dead
Darlin’
Gimme a head with hair
Long, beautiful hair
Shining, gleaming
Streaming, flaxen, waxen
Give me down to there (Hair!)
Shoulder length or longer hair (Hair!)
Here baby, there mama
Everywhere daddy daddy
Hair (Hair! Hair! Hair! Hair! Hair! Hair!)
Grow it, show it
Long as I can grow it
My hair
I let it fly in the breeze
And get caught in the trees
Give a home for the fleas in my hair
A home for fleas
A hive for the buzzin’ bees (buzzin’ beeeeeeeesssss)
As I said, from 1970 to 1971 I had a buzz-cut, just stubble where my hair should have been. We called it high and tight. From 1971 to 1973 I had a regular hair cut, like a regular guy. And yet, as soon as I left the military, “I let my freak flag fly”.
I did my diligence to do the best research possible. I found two articles that were interesting, and focused on the impact of long hair of young men in high school.
JSTOR is a digital library of academic journals, books, and primary sources. It is freely accessed and very useful.
The two articles are…
“The High School Hair Wars of the 1960s” by Matthew Wills, March 10, 2018, JSTOR Daily
“Flaunting the Freak Flag: Karr v. Schmidt and the Great Hair Debate in American High Schools, 1965-1975” by Gael Graham, Sept., 2004, The Journal of American History, Vol. 91, No. 2
While both articles are well written, well researched, they read to me as detached history. The difference of reporting on D-Day, and experiencing Utah Beach.
George Eskridge, was a good man, it can be said that he always looked on the bright side of things. When he was just ten years old in Wales, he was kidnapped, and shipped off to a foreign country. His new master was kind enough to the boy, and year after year promoted him in various jobs, and even gave him a small wage. After eight years, George had saved enough to get back home. Once he was back, with the support of his family, he entered college, got a classic education, and a law degree. No one could recall him complaining about his decades of servitude.
Within a few years he had saved enough money for his next adventure. He went back to Virginia, where he was indentured, and bought 12,000 acres in Westmoreland County. He had learned every aspect of farming, harvesting, and the legal aspects of the farming business. This was in 1696.
George married a widow with 5 children, and enjoyed fatherhood to such an extent that he had three more children. No one could tell that his was a blended family. He treated all his children with the loving care that they deserved. He was a fair man in business, and a fair man in the community. He was elected to the House of Burgesses in Virginia for ten years.
His neighbors all thought the best of him, and he thought the best of them, and was ready to help when there was trouble. One couple had a modest farm next to his plantation. The husband got sick and died before his harvest was in. The wife, with a small daughter, was at a loss. George solved the problem by sending his men directly over to their farm after his harvest was done. This he continued to do year after year. The relationship grew so close that George became the young girl’s godfather.
A few years passed and the mother of the young girl got sick and died. She had previously arranged that George would be her daughter’s guardian. This meant that the small farm would remain the girl’s property, and she had security while considering marriage.
George had moved Mary Ball (the young girl’s name) into his large family home. He was already arranging marriages for his 8 children, adding one more to the list would not be a problem. Eventually a local suitor was found and George gave away the bride in a wedding at his home. George remained a good friend to the young couple for years afterwards. When Augustine and Mary Washington became pregnant, the first son was named after George.
George was a good man, and his god-daughter gave birth to a good son, a great general, and a great President.
We have arrived at our rental home in the Finger Lakes in upper New York State. It was many hours in a cramped airplane, and almost as many hours in a small rental car, driving up from JFK airport. We saved a $1,000 dollars from another flight from NY to Syracuse, but it was another four hour ride up the Hudson River.
My brother and I were soon out of the busy city, and the outskirts faded away. We made one short stop at the 24 hour tire store, weirdly placed exactly where we needed to check our tire pressure. Everything was fine, and we drove on the ribbon that twisted through the valleys, following the upper Delaware River. Our niece was getting married in upper New York State, after years of living in California. We were happy for her.
The trees here were dense, and the foliage came down close to the ground, creating a green wall along side the roadway. It was so different from the forests of the High Sierra. The trails here would be ancient, blazed over hundreds of years by the native Algonquin peoples. It was vaguely intimidating.
Arriving at the Finger Lakes region for the “distance wedding” was also a much needed vacation, and the end result of a full month of research. We wanted enough bedrooms for the multiple families that would join us. We wanted it near to a town, but not too near. We did have some friends that were local, so being near to them would be nice. And a pool, we needed to have a pool. The lake was near, but it was cold, so a pool in the sweltering summer was a must.
We did find a house that was perfect, it was on a bluff that gave us a great view of the lake on one side, and we butted up against that Great Green Wall of a forest on the other side. Looking West was the water, the pool, and the lake. Looking East was darkness. I noticed that the house was situated so that all the rooms were facing the water. Great views of the lake. The forest was to our back, it was undiscovered, almost ignored, or purposely avoided.
Two weeks to undo old habits, and two weeks to acquire new ones. And the first thing to address was the sleeping arrangements.
We have been traveling together for years, and during that time we have slept in cars, tents, cabins, boats… we have always adjusted. We were only two years apart, so we were each other’s best friend. Sharing the same room on our travels is mostly managed around the light sleeping habits of my younger brother. It is very hard for him to get to sleep, and very easy for him to wake up, then remain awake for hours. So the bedroom had to became a very dark place, shutters and curtains. In most hotels and motels this was no problem. Here it was an issue because the large bay windows only had light silk curtains. The lights on the lake were easy to see, but fortunately it was a new moon. For me it was usually hard to tell if my eyes were open or shut. This place wasn’t that bad.
As I’ve got older I’ve developed a need to get up several times a night. It became a long and tedious journey from the bed to the bathroom. Shuffling along the floor, fearful of taking a step because I couldn’t see what I was about to step on. The only light coming from the faint glow of my smart watch. The phone light was far too bright and might wake him.
Then of course, there was my snoring in combination of apnea. Strange combination of a sawmill, then a spastic jerking to regain breathing. Still, we managed through elbow pokes and thrown shoes, to be in the same room. The big change was my heart attack. Adjusting for health concerns can be massive. But between two aging brothers we made it work.
Sleeping in another room, sleeping at an angle, because laying flat was impossible. Sleeping on my side was no longer possible, because having your sternum sawed open made it painful. So many adjustments! Still, we worked it out. Even on our yearly backpacking trip, spending a week in a small tent, wasn’t bad. We found things worked out.
This currently was going to be a little longer than a weekend, but I had gathered enough pillows to make a proper wedge to cut down my snoring, and to help me to breathe. It was a large room with two double beds, but there was plenty of walking room. The bedroom didn’t have heavy curtains, but it was a new moon, so the night was pretty dark, and I still had my smart watch for a little light. Things worked out.
Somehow during the last year, the snoring became an issue. Not mine, because living alone made it a non issue. Sharing sleeping quarters was different. My brother in early years had barely made a sound all night. I often had to check the rise and fall of his shoulders to know that he was still breathing. There was some unexplained coughing recently, so maybe allergies have become an issue for him. Now he has started to snore.
His snoring wasn’t close to my epic sawmill, but it was a constant low rattle. It was one of those sounds that penetrates any attempt to ignore it. It was not a choice to use the poking in the ribs, he needed his rest. I found that my earplugs plugged in to a restful playlist was the perfect answer. I did have to edit my playlist considerably because often my dreams act out what I’m hearing, but it eventually worked out.
The one thing that was different is that I was taken out of the environment. With earplugs in, I couldn’t hear the creaks of the house, or the wind in the trees. I felt vulnerable, not that it was a big deal. It was just different. It was certainly safe.
Okay… new house, new neighborhood. I knew nothing about the history, the wildlife, or patterns of nature. Maybe this wasn’t the safest time to isolate myself in a bubble of music.
I decided to unplug one earbud, the one farthest from the snoring, just as a test. I was the eldest and I always took the lead in issues of safety. I tried to listen to the base sounds, the normal creaks and wind through the trees. It was a little different from expected, a newer house, different species of trees created different sounds, but I soon had a good solid baseline.
Then something different occurred. It was like a switch was turned off, except it wasn’t light, it was sound. All I could hear was the soft steady snoring on the other side of the room. Outside it was dead silence. Then there was a rustling at a distance, and it was coming towards the house. Almost like a car coming from a distance. Soon the sound was in the trees in the back of the house, then it passed over, heading down to the lake. I could actually hear it leaving.
In its wake was the dead silence outside, as before, but now I could tell that my brother’s snoring was slightly different. I wasn’t quite sure what the difference was at first, but now, I wouldn’t call it soft. There was a harsh emphasis, so much so that I felt the need to plug in the earbud in order to drown it out. But now I was back in the “bubble”.
In the quiet parts of the music I could still hear the snoring, and it still continued to change slightly, more fierce, with more volume. Then suddenly he choked, or maybe he just cleared hi throat. There was a moment when I thought he was shaking his head, then it was back to that hard snore, but now almost a growl.
I was propped up on my wedge of pillows, and I needed to make an adjustment, so I leaned forward a little and I used my left hand to pull the pillow to a better spot. The movement activated the smart watch and the dial illuminated a small area in the direction of the snoring for a portion of a second.
Being lit from below changes the normal shadows, but there was more than different shadows. It was a different face. The snoring was definitely now a full growl, the lips were pulled back into a wide slit, with flecks of drool in each corner, the brow was knitted above eyes that were unnaturally round, with pupils surrounded by white. My brother had crossed the room and was now standing hunched over me. Before the light faded I could sense that both of his hands were clawing the open air in time with his growls.
This was seen almost like in the flash of lightning, the light of the watch went out , and all was darkness. I was frozen in place, barely breathing, totally alert to any movement…
Then and old word came coursing up from my memory, windigo… windigo!
You take the time to venture into new lands, you cross two or three rivers, maybe a mountain range or two. You travel light, make no noise, you leave no trace. In some ways you would be labeled “a spy”. Within your spirit you called yourself “just a scout”.
The real test is when you find something wonderful, and you make the commitment to move “in strength”. If you don’t, you risk being stopped, defeated, killed, or enslaved. Certain;y this has been true in history, but it could also be true in modern times.
The lone spy in ancient times tried hard to be unseen, and if found out, it may have been difficult to survive. If he had recognizable skill sets, he might have been allowed transition to the new culture. The likelihood is that he would always be suspect, and seen as an outsider. The result would be lack of freedom, low pay, and no future. Parts of this is still true today.
If a scout successfully returns and convinces several families, or even a whole tribe to move to a new area, then the same rules apply. You may be stopped, or permitted to establish a new neighborhood, but the edges will likely have friction, and the more powerful group will determine the solution to troubles. True in the past, still true today.
When the cycle of scouts, spies, the random family unit and whole tribes have moved, then it can be when nations that confront nations. Usually we call this war, with the addition of “invasion”.
Certainly numbers count, and in most cases, the issue is decided by numbers. But there are other factors; cultural advantage’s, technological advantage’s, and perhaps even a “conquering spirit” advantage. Sometimes numbers do not count so much.
This was evident in history and it doesn’t require a lot of proof. It’s harder to find examples of entire nations on the move in present history. There are theories of intentional “replacement” plans, where socio-economic groups are “replaced”. It was definitely true in the past, but they used techniques that if used today would seem draconian. There are some people that study the changes around the world, and see that it might not be entirely accidental.
I want to isolate three examples from history that may clarify three different approaches to the successful movement of people. 1) the juggernaut of the Horde, 2) the Mighty, 3) open borders
In all cases the deciding factor is strength. We have one source that is unusually well documented. It started with one person, Temujin. He may have come from a tribal leadership background, but that is not where he ended.
(1) He was exiled from the surviving members of his tribe. They were absorbed by a more powerful tribe, with some that were killed, some that were enslaved, and some that were allowed to exist at the “edges” of their culture. The result of the powerful subjugating the weak. Temujin was reduced to the loneliest number, just one person, on the outside, living by stealing scraps. He could have stayed there until he died, which might have been until the weather changed.
But Temujin had a plan, if he could find a small group of people, he could challenge the leader in a “do or die” fight, then he might have a rather small tribe, with food, shelter, and a small future. He found the small group, he won, and he immediately searched for another group that was larger, but no too large. That was his secret plan for the rest of his life.
He repeated this over and over, and within a few short years he was renamed “Genghis Khan”, leader of the largest Empire in the history of the world. He never lost a battle that resulted in stopping his movement forward. He might have been delayed a few times, but dozens of empires fell, and the Mongolian people were free to live as nomads anywhere on the Steppes of Asia or Europe, and the world was changed forever.
To be sure there were other factors in play. The courage of their warriors, the structure of their army, the reliance on tough ponies and excellent archery on horseback, their method of leaving local governance in place for a price, and the shear terror of death and destruction for anyone who stood in their way.
Marco Polo traveled the entire width of Asia in complete safety, with the possession of the Khan’s passport.
Genghis used the same strategy in attacking other nations. He targeted nations that were slightly less powerful. When he won, there was no one that the smaller nations could turn to for help. He attacked in winter, because he could easily cross frozen river’s with his horses. He avoided fighting in rainy weather because the water had a damaging effect on the powerful laminated bows.
(2) Another example of movement through strength is the Nordic expansion into the Ukraine during the 700s. These “Pre-Vikings” came from the very cold North. They were fighting farmers and pastoralists, perfect for the steppes of Russia and the Ukraine. They used their well designed longboats to move thousands of men quietly down the river. Near Kyiv, they established a land base, and plowed their fields, and built a walled city.
Technically, they were a small army with no one to fight. They were skilled fighters, so they offered the neighboring towns and villages “protection” from being attacked. This is much like the gangs in the inner city today. Asking for money so that shops aren’t vandalized. (Side note: the Vandals were a people that lived as nomads on the steppes of Russia, then moved into Europe to confront the Romans, then moved to Spain, not satisfied, they became sailors and moved to Ancient Carthage, and became successful pirates in the Mediterranean. No wonder the world accepts the term “vandalism “ from their tribe.)
This “protection” racket kept the gold flowing into the city’s coffers and they became quite wealthy.
Sometimes they had to fight bandits, sometimes they had to fight cities that refused to pay…but if they won, they created a destination for more to com and settle. The tribe that Rurik brought to Kyiv became known as “the Rus”, and some say that is the source for “Russia”.
(3) The last theory is the open border concept. Today it is a political term, but essentially it is a organic term. It is a slow moving process, taking several generations. If there are no walls, or borders then people will fill the empty space in a random fashion, filling the well watered plains, leaving the mountain tops to loners. When the good lands are filled, you move on to the next rich valley. Some call it “the ooze factor”.
But if you were there first, and put up a fence, you might be a bit disturbed. There was once the example of a sleepy California town where a large tract of land was purchased by a group of people called “the Moonies”, they were followers of Rev. Moon. Soon, the town was exploding with new citizens from around the world. It didn’t last long, thirty years later it is back to being even sleepier, but it was very different for a while.
I know of dozens of examples, some based on religion, some based on politics. Some have faded away, some are still slowly growing. It is like being invaded in slow motion. By the time you recognize the change, it is far to late to do anything about it. Because of this it has been embraced as “the natural process”.
The world is such a wonderful place because all three methods are occurring at the same time.
I live in earthquake country, but I don’t have a lot of earthquake stories. Maybe that’s a good thing. Nothing gory, or heartbreaking. Just a lot of dish rattling, and a few pictures bouncing off the walls. The television always has a number of the worst case scenarios, broken wine bottles at stores, collapsed ceiling tiles, and a few chimneys toppled in the neighborhood. Fortunately it is very rare that lives are lost.
I do have one earthquake story that I would like to tell before it is lost forever. For a time I lived in Point Richmond, which is a small residential area in the low hills directly across the bay from San Francisco. Nearly every home has a wonderful view of the evening sunset across the Bay, and the lights of the City.
Many of the homes were built in the early 1900s when the first population boom encouraged lots to be purchased, and individualized homes built. It continues today, with any open lot that has been left. The effect is that there is a range of architectural styles, and age, throughout the neighborhood. Stately Victorians, next to 1950s, next to Post Modern homes.
I think it was 1990, on Crest Street where I walked, there was an older, one story Victorian, facing the setting sun with no houses on the other side of the street. This was a ridge road that led to a popular vista point. Well, popular to the locals who knew how to get through the maze of streets.
On my way walking to the vista point I noticed an older gentleman sitting in a chair, taking in the afternoon sun. He was still there when I came back, so I stopped to say hello. After a few pleasantries, we began talking about the view that he had everyday, and how special it was.
He related that he was ninety-two years old and had been born in this house, so he had seen quite a few remarkable sunsets. I asked him if there was one that stood out in his memory, and he quickly replied that there was one.
He was about eight years old and it was a day after the big quake. Nothing much happened in the neighborhood, some bookshelves fell over, and some dishes broke. It shook for a long time, but the house just flexed a bit. Across the bay the brick buildings had broke, and some fires had started. That evening he stayed up and watched San Francisco burn. It was April 18, 1906.
As horrible as it was to see, the thing that struck him was what he saw the next morning. He got up early and walked across the street to still see some fires burning, and billowing clouds of smoke. There on the grass all around him were some of the ashes that had traveled all the way across the Bay, riding the prevailing winds.
Something caught his eye, it was the front page of one of the City’s newspapers, laying draped on a rose bush. The thing about it was, that the paper was completely burnt a dark black, but the ink was white! It was like a negative, but still very readable. The fact that it stayed in one piece all the way across the Bay, and then was so readable, draped on the bush, was amazing. He tried to pick it up to show his parents, or perhaps save it in some way, but it crumbled in his hand.
All he had was the story of the wind delivering the morning paper, as readable ash. And he told it for eighty years.
She had her morning coffee on her balcony, and I walked underneath on my way to school. She had unnaturally black hair, or maybe it was just her pale face. I tried to walk without moving up and down, conscious that the wind was moving my hair over my face.
She was going to work in a few minutes, but took the time to come out on her second floor balcony, to watch the world go by. I had a thirty minute walk to my senior year in high school, so I was like clockwork.
After a month, I noticed that she watched me, not noticed me, she watched me pass. I started to watch back. She had probably just graduated, got her first apartment, her first real job, and she was not used to being alone.
After two months she said “Hello!”. I was stunned, but managed a smooth reply, “Hello!” After that we just nodded knowingly.
Three months, she asked if I liked music, I nodded. She suggested that I stop by sometime to listen. I hadn’t stopped walking so I turned my head backwards and nodded.
A few days later she said that she would be home in the afternoon, if I want to stop by. It was less awkward that she didn’t say, “stop by after school.” At this point I had only vocalized one “Hello!”, and dozens of knowing nods. I wondered what a conversation would be like with a woman, alone, in her own apartment. So I replied, “I’ll see you then.”
Later that day, after finding my way to her front door (a guess), I knocked, instead of ringing the bell. It seemed more manly, but I intentionally didn’t apply any rhythm.
She answered the door, dressed in black, holding a wine glass, wine matching the red of her lipstick. The impact of her blue eyes, dark eye-shadow, black pageboy hair, black blouse, and turquoise stone necklace was startling. I was way out of my comfort zone, with my Madras shirt, brown baggy cords, and Thom McCann sandals. She said come in.
It was a one bedroom apartment, with the bedroom hidden somewhere, but I saw the bathroom, kitchen, living room, and the door to the balcony. There was a small sofa with pillows, and a plush chair. She said have a seat. With my brain working fast enough to create some beads of sweat, I chose the plush chair. Best not to assume anything.
She had a record player on a small table. It wasn’t part of a stereo system, it wasn’t even a stereo. I had one like it for about four years. I got a subscription from Columbia records, and my mother bought me a “Hifi”, short for “high fidelity”. Apparently her salary didn’t allow her to purchase the newly available stereos.
I looked at the small stack of albums, I didn’t see any 45s. We called the albums LPs because they were “long playing”. The one on top looked like it was used a lot. It was Sam the Sham. and the Pharaohs. All of the albums were by Sam the Sham, and the Pharraohs. I wasn’t aware that they had that many albums.
“Do you like Sam the Sham? I really love them!” And the first record went on the record player. “Would you like a glass of wine?” “Ahm, sure!” Man, woman, music and wine. It was almost a script to a movie, except I missed rehearsals, and didn’t know what to say. I did bring my notebooks, with my rants, scribbles, and bad haikus. I was terrified that I would have to share them, considering that I was mostly mute.
The first song was finished, we had said nothing beyond the greeting at the door. So I told her my name, she smiled, and replied with her name. And the second song finished.
I figured a natural break would come when the sixth song was done, and the record was turned over to play the B-side. Then another break would occur when the album was changed. I did the math, it looks like we have about three hours of listening, and about 12 breaks. I could be home by dinner.
Unfortunately she was very practiced with the album flip to the backside. Not enough time to ask a question, or to make a statement. She did ask if it was loud enough, and I nodded.
Someone was in charge of what was happening, and it wasn’t me. My wine was untouched, and hers was half done. I studied the room, and when she was intent on the music, her eyes shut, and I studied her. She had clear skin, with fine lines around her eyes, she didn’t blend the makeup onto her throat, so her face was several shades lighter than her neck. Her lipstick was left on the wineglass, and slightly removed from her upper and lower lips, making it almost two-toned.
There was a brass camel on her bookshelf. The books were few, and looked to be from the Reader’s Digest collection. Kitchen counters clean, and stark. Everything in their space, and hidden behind doors, and in drawers. A small B&W TV with rabbit ears next to a rack of TV trays. It could have been my mother’s house.
Then things got ugly. If her flipping the album was fast, the changing of albums was just slightly slower. The new album was pulled from the cover, the old album was popped off, and for a moment there were two disks being juggled (only touching the labels of each record. The new album was on, with the record arm placed on the first song. Then old album was momentarily placed in the wrong cover.
Frustrated, she shook the record out, and it took flight directly at my wine glass. The glass tipped over on the table, splashing my cords, her couch, and the rug below. Oh yeah, the red lake on the table also soaked my notebooks.
It took less than 15 seconds, but we stared without saying anything for at least 30 more seconds. She took several hops to get paper towels, and a wet dishrag. All the while, she was muttering something. I could only hear part, “at least he could have drunk some of it.”
She blotted and wiped everything, but my cords and my notebooks. I wrapped the notebooks in paper towels, but decided not to blot my pants. I left her standing there with red stained hands, saying that I had better get home to change clothes.
When I got home I opened my notebooks, there were places where the ink ran, and wine left blots, like psychology tests. All in all, the notebooks had more physical character than content character.
The next morning, she was not on her balcony. I never saw her again. For some reason, I remembered 56 years ago, and wrote the following
I was thinking about my parents recently. I was thinking about the depth of our relationships, and the trials and tribulations of growing up in their household. Make no mistake, it was their household. It wasn’t as if it was declared every morning, but it was implied frequently.
I had a great childhood, a few bits of drama here and there. And my experience was quite different than my brothers, as they were seven and seventeen years older. That makes a difference, but we were different people as well, and buttons that were pushed were different. I can only state what I felt by the relationship, based upon the events of my life.
From my father I think I got intense focus, a love of reading, independence, a love for the outdoors…he introduced me to archery, sailing, camping, many things that remained most of my life. We didn’t talk much about deeper things. He never tried, and when I did, he just nodded, and blinked. I think he was uncomfortable.
My mother was the perfect example of motherly love, always supportive, always quick with a smile, hug, kiss. She was independent as well, and had a variety of interests, good with her hands, loved pets, plants, and the care of the same.
The point is that the core of my being was shaped by these people, like it or not. Yes, certain teachers had an impact, a favorite relative or two, my brothers for example. Also, the books that I read, they had a final shaping.
And later on my marriage had shaping and polish! For me, my family had much more impact on the person that I am. I realize that this is not true for many people. But is it usually true? Or are we mostly raised by ourselves, and perhaps wolves?
I think this might be a question worthy to ponder for most people, because it can have a huge impact on cascading influences. Is there generational impact? A popular thought is that each generation is slightly better than the previous one. I think this is skewed by increased technology. If you believe this principle, then going back dozens of generations would reveal that we had the practice of eating our children, and that would have ended the line.
Some genealogists have talked about cycles, or waves. Some have postulated that we are pretty much fixed to our DNA, and we have been the same, plus or minus, for eons.
I don’t know about the long term effects, but I’m fairly certain that my short term effects are cascading. In other words, what I feel is what my parents felt about their parents. I did not know any of my grandparents as an adult, and only one was alive when I was very young, but the possibility is that a pattern was fairly consistent for at least three generations. What about the next three generations? And the next three generations after that?
There is no proof, I haven’t found a detailed written document that wrote about this concept. I know their names, dates of birth, and places of birth, but I don’t know how they thought. History can be accurate about some facts, less so on meaning and content.
The point of this thread is that I feel something unique when I discover a brand new great grandfather, or pair of great grandparents. It’s the factual unbroken line of DNA, close or far. The possibility that my 30th great grandfather thought pretty the same as I do now. I find that important, particularly if there are stories written about that individual.
So that partly explains my passion about genealogy. The next reason is not as clear, or even reasonable. I got the sense that they have been forgotten. I know this because they have been forgotten! Their children didn’t forget, and maybe even their grandchildren, but eventually their descendants became completely unaware that they have lived. Well, I suppose we all know they must be back there somewhere, but not as individuals. When I look through the various lines, I pause my finger on the names, and I try to pronounce them aloud. After generations of silence, I speak their names. They are once again remembered.
I haven’t written about my great great grandparents for a while. I would like to tell about the common stories told around their dinner table, but no one recorded them, so they ate lost to history. I know that some of them lived in challenging times, in challenging places. But without recorded history it’s just a good guess. So I suppose I will have to settle for those ancestors that actually made the history books, or a combination of history books and Wikipedia.
So let me tell you about my 52nd great grandfather. Kind of an interesting guy, lots written about him from widely different sources, so you can parse together a certain truth. There have even been a few movies! My 52nd great grandmother has also found history kindly, and portrayed by an accomplished actor. She even gets a great quote to remember her by… “Come back with your shield, or on it!”.
Yes, my 52nd great grandfather is none other than Leonidas, King of Sparta.
Well, why not! He had kids, and his kids had kids. Someone gets to be related eventually.
I don’t think we get to know the Queen’s name in the movie, but apparently it was Gorgo, and they had one son, his name was Pleistarchus, not a name that rolls off your tongue. By the way, he grew up to be no slouch himself. He was very active in Greek politics and wars, and found himself on the winning side due to his skills.
Eventually he met a young lady from the island of Thera, the famous one that blew-up in pre-history. Removed from the mainland they were on the edge of civilization for centuries. They eventually embraced the Roman culture, even while Alexander was making his run for history. For the most part they stay rooted on Thera and kept their family records like good Roman citizens.
I’ve alway said that genealogy can really be trusted if you can get into royal records. They were fanatics about accurate family history and employed court scribes to write it all down. The other fanatic group was the Romans. So if you are lucky to find a lowly count or Duke, then ride the information until some barbarian royalty marries into a Roman family, then you have decades of records. In this case a Greek family that embraced the practice of Roman culture.
So Pleistarchus’s son lived on Thera and took a Greek/Roman name, Aulus Plotius Leonides. Kind of a nod to his grandfather.
The big improvement is when they married into the House of Burgundy around 1000. Everybody wanted to marry into the Burgundian’s, the Mauvoisins, the Bethencourts, the Bracquemont, the Grainvilles, the Meluns, and the Hammersteins.
They apparently stayed on the island for about seven generations, then moved to Rome itself for a couple of generations, finally they moved to the edges of the Roman Empire in France. They became a minor royal family in Brittany for seven of eight generations, and began moving up in power and wealth, though talent and marriages.
The Hammersteins are important because it was a family going in the wrong direction, not richer and more powerful, but poorer and not “land owners”. Sometime in the 1400s there was a great movement to trim the royal families. There were too many of them, seeking privileges without the ability to pay taxes. The wiser families married into the richer commoners. Ha! Some of my German peasants married ex-royalty… So I get to claim a micro connection to Leonidas!
Do I trust the information? The Roman and European lines have been checked and triple checked for generations. The poor German fathers have had records digitized by Ancestry.com and that is vastly improved from a few years ago when the data was barely on microfilm. I still don’t know where my grandfather died, he left and just disappeared, so nothing is absolutely known, just a pretty good guess for recent history, but better when it got written down.
So, back to Leonidas, what do we know? Well, he appears to be a badass. He led a core group of personally chosen Spartans, he gathered 300 men for the battle. Not necessarily the best fighters, but older and courageous. He made it attractive for other men from other cities to join him at Thermopylae, “the Hot Gates”. At the start of the battle he had maybe 5 or 6 thousand Greeks, fighting against 200 to 300 thousand Persians. The battlefield was narrow so very few men fought at one time. The Greeks created mounds of dead Persians. He delayed the Persian army for maybe a week, giving the main Greek army time to organize. He didn’t come back from the battle, not even on his shield. It is written that the survivors tried to bring his body back, but the Persians wouldn’t allow it, and then mutilated Leonidas. His head was put on a stake, and his body was crucified at the battle site.
In 1955 a statue was erected at Thermopylae with the words: “ΜΟΛΩΝ ΛΑΒΕ” (“Come and take them”). This was Leonidas’ answer to the Persian demand to drop your weapons. Yep, badass, was my 52nd great grandfather.
First, as an instructor, I would always remind the class, “There are no silly questions, there are just questions.”
I just watched a rented Google movie, “Emily, @ the Edge of Chaos”. It was a remarkable movie, perhaps touching at the edges of the most important parts of the known universe. How’s that for a recommendation? It introduced me to Emily Levine.
And quite appropriately, as this is the source of the title for this rant. I’m sorry to say that if this movie is the first you have known about Emily Levine, then you will be sad to know that within a few short years, she died of cancer. There is a hint of her lack of the fear of death in this movie, and in a TedTalk video, she announced her Stage Four prognosis, which came to the conclusion within a year.
So, the question still is, how much do dead people know? The answer is blunt, and perhaps obvious. How much did they know when they were alive? The secondary qualifier is, what was the measuring technology of his/her life?
Did they live in a small tribal community that was mostly preliterate, primarily oral? In that case, the dead person’s knowledge lasted as long as the collective survivor’s memory. The accuracy of that knowledge is highly subjective.
Did the dead person write things down, or did someone with personal knowledge write things down for them? In that case the knowledge is passed through the decades, as long as the transmission medium survives, or is copied for another cycle. The accuracy is again subjective, but can be more accurate with multiple copies to use as comparison.
What about Emily Levine’s knowledge? We have her books, blogs, and videos. And we have her film. The knowledge is fixed, her death stops any new knowledge that can be fixed to her life. But knowledge that is based upon ideas that she proposed… well! , that might fall in the joint ownership category. The Great Shared Knowledge of the universe. That place is filled with the knowledge of dead people. Unfortunately all of it is dependent upon some sort of successful storage medium. I do not mistrust oral history as a medium, although there is a difference depending upon decades. Older appears to be more accurate than newer. And of course copies can be edited. Video and film can also be modified but it is much more difficult. Talk to any professional editor of film and you will find out that context can still be changed dramatically.
Emily Levine died, she reminded us that we shall also die. How can we live with death? Because life is death, Emily said this. I think she was/is right. I few years ago I had a significant heart attack. I learned a few things. I did not have pain in my right arm. It turns out that women do not generally have a right arm pain either.
I had a golf ball knot in my back, like a pulled muscle. Good to know, I could sit or sleep wrong, or I could be having a heart attack. I could clean the garage, and later feel muscle tension, or I could be hours from major heart failure. I love the dilemma.
It does generate some thought to some sort of existence after death. On a spiritual level I’m pretty good, on a worldly level I ponder how it works out. I’m not famous, nor am I widely published. I have some parts of my existence saved in the digital world, and less recorded on canvas or paper. How much will be seen or read? Will there be knowledge shared? Will someone, at sometime, find anything important in my participation of “shared knowledge”?
I’m not even sure that I will know about it, even if my existence changes in the future. Clearly I’m investing in the possibility that I might contribute, less clearly that it matters. I will say this, I’m very glad that Emily Levine took the time to save bits of herself on a medium that I could access. I an better for it.
According to the biblical story, Pharoah had a dream that no one could interpret for him. His chief cupbearer then remembered that Joseph had interpreted a dream for him when he was in prison two years earlier. So, Joseph was “brought from the dungeon” and shaved and changed his clothes. He then came before Pharoah and told him that his dream meant there would be seven years of abundance in the land of Egypt followed by seven years of famine. Joseph recommended that “a discerning and wise man” be put in charge and that food should be collected in the good years and stored for use during the famine. This seemed like a good idea to Pharaoh and Joseph ended up with the job (Genesis 41).
Okay, so let us look at the actual verses. I’m using the Hebrew translation as it is probably closer to the original.
1 It happened at the end of two full years, that Pharoah dreamed: and behold, he stood by the river. 2 Behold, there came up out of the river seven cattle, sleek and fat, and they fed in the marsh grass. 3 Behold, seven other cattle came up after them out of the river, ugly and thin, and stood by the other cattle on the brink of the river. 4 The ugly and thin cattle ate up the seven sleek and fat cattle. So Paroh awoke. 5 He slept and dreamed a second time: and behold, seven heads of grain came up on one stalk, healthy and good. 6 Behold, seven heads of grain, thin and blasted with the east wind, sprung up after them. 7 The thin heads of grain swallowed up the seven healthy and full ears. Pharoah awoke, and behold, it was a dream.
I want to pay particular attention to the central premise of the verses, and it isn’t about cows of ears of corn. “a dream that no one could interpret for him”. What? Let us be perfectly clear, the government of Pharoah was extremely well organized, with thousands of specialized jobs. All kinds of job, people watching the calendar, teams of people for each god (and they had hundreds of gods}, cupbearers (wine tasters), chefs, secretaries, poet laureates, musicians, I could go on and on, the point being is that Pharoah had well paid “dream interpreters” whose job it was to tell Pharoah the meaning of the dreams that he had.
Now, I do believe that sometimes God creeps in and gives a dream that is more of a prophecy, and maybe it doesn’t come from Pharoah’s subconscious. Given that this can be true, would God go through all that trouble to make it a total mystery that no one can interpret?
Let’s look at the two separate dreams using common logic. Both use a common number 7. Seven cows, seven ears of corn, both are food items. In fact, the lean cows eat the fat cows, and the lean ears of corn eat the fat corn. I’m not sure that follows logic, but you can get the idea that we are left with hungry cows, and hungry corn. Even if they had just eaten their friends.
So, what does the seven mean. The common choices are seven days, seven weeks, seven months, or seven years. Growing cycles for planted food is usually marked in years to get the full seasonal impact. Even cattle are measured in years in order to accommodate the birth cycles.
So logic tells us there will be seven good years for food, and then seven bad years of famine. Joseph tells Pharoah to prepare for the coming famine by forming a storage facility, and most importantly to convince the people to put work twice as hard, once for the normal good times, then once again the store for the bad times.
That really wasn’t that hard. If God gave the Pharoah that dream, he made it very easy to work it out. If Pharoah made up that dream it was that hard either. Using logic it is obvious that the most intense dream a Pharoah could have is one that would negatively impact his people. Realistically, the Pharoah would never suffer a famine.
So the real question is why did the “dream interpreters” say they couldn’t figure it out. Indeed, why did Pharoah say to himself, “I can’t understand this. Let’s listen to the cupbearer (who will probably get poisoned soon), and let him bring that slave up from the dungeon, in order to see what he says.
Someone has to take the blame for the plan. Certainly if it doesn’t work, but more importantly if it does work. Convincing people in the midst of prosperity to work twice as hard will not make anyone popular. The Pharoah wanted no part of this, he punted. And the Dream Interpreters also saw the dilemma, so they agreed, get the slave from the dungeon to enforce the plan. And until the famine hit, the people probably griped a great deal.
This is part plan of an overall plan to take all of the miracles out of the Bible. I know this is popular for some people. This was never in the “miracle bag”, but it has been glossed over without looking at why everyone feigned ignorance, when the answer was obvious. To me, this is evidence that the Bible relates events that were true!
A Work Progressing 
I’ve worn my hair long for 59 years
Okay, minus the three years that I was in the army.
Why is this significant? Possibly it is just as ridiculous as the fad of long pointed shoes in European royal courts. Oh, yes, that was a thing.
It got so bad that strings were applied to the tips in order to pull them up so that the person could walk.
They were called poulaines, or Crakows, for the reason that the style may have started in Poland. They were banned in England in 1465. It may have been a class statement, one couldn’t walk very far in poulaines, and you certainly couldn’t do manual labor. It was something rich people wore- the richer, the longer and pointy-er.
In the Sixties there was a fashion push that first started in England. The Beatles were a rock and roll band from Liverpool that at first simply combed their hair differently. Eventually they had their hair cut in the “bowl” style. It went along with the Nehru collar, tight tapered slacks, and pointed Demi boots with an inside the ankle zipper. It was an entire look copied by thousands of fans worldwide.
As the English invasion widened, the American rockers lost their Pomade and their flat-top ducktails, with the waterfall front, and went to a softer forehead sweep that was popular with California surfers. Still short in the back though.
So was it the music that drove the style? Yes, and no.
Wearing longer hair was a statement that signified certain ideas that were non-conformist, even if most people couldn’t articulate this.
I wish it was so clear and highly ethical. I believe though personal experience that the hair was perfect for the eruption of teenage forehead acne.
Sure, it may appear on the nose, cheek, or chin, but the forehead was one thing that could be covered.
The other thing is Alfred E. Neumann was very popular. It was a teenage comic book called “Mad Magazine”, with Alfred as the star, with his gap toothed smile, his freckles and his portruding ears. Big dumbo ears.
The hair didn’t have to be too long, just long enough to fill the gap between the skull and the ear.
It was an attempt to look better, it was as basic as how to attract girls, without knowing exactly what to do with them if it worked.
Not cutting hair also spread your allowance farther. I got $5.00 every two weeks for hair cuts. I kept the money but didn’t get the hair cut.
So why did it get to be such a big thing that it went to the Supreme Court several times?
I think there were influencers that saw this fad as a label for newly plowed ground. Teachers could suggest “Animal Farm” or “Fahrenheit 451”, cranky uncles could talk about mountain men and pirates.
Weirdly, classical music was often called “long-haired” music, but rarely listened by long hairs
This blog is an attempt to defeat a sort of blackmail. Over forty years ago, my wife and I thought it would be a good thing to record our thoughts about the world because we were expecting our first child. I had been a parent before but tens years had passed and there were a lot of changes. Plus, I thought I was pretty wise at the age of 30.
Maybe it was the wine or just inflated ego, but I went on a rant about the longhairs, the jocks, the nerds, and the thugs. Of course this was in high school so there was always conflict, and a well defined pecking order. In the early years no one exactly noticed, but by 1965, it was clear that the long-hairs were fair game. Even the nerds gave us the cold shoulder.
Apparently the tape is hilarious and damning at the same time. My daughter has the only copy and threatens to play it at family gatherings. I’m not sure what I said, so I can’t refute anything, but I’m assuming that I simply told the truth as I saw it, and still see it now.
Writing this out takes away the power of a surprised playing of the tape.
Long hair may have started as a fad, but it was found useful to coverup some of the anxieties of young men. It also acted like a badge or uniform, so that like-minded folks could gather together.
Unfortunately I did not find that some of the assumed likemindedness was real or helpful. Marijuana wasn’t very popular yet, it wasn’t even called weed. Normally it was a joint or “Mary Jane”. As if that was a code that Narcs couldn’t figure out. Oh yeah, and paranoia was rampant, but the few users were mostly long-hairs. I didn’t smoke, so I must have been a Narc. High school is filled with drama.
Day to day living was a lot like combat, long hours of tedious guard duty, with spurts of violence, and running. No knives, no guns, just kicks and punches. I once got hit so hard that a molar cut the inside of my cheek. For months I had a purple knot as if I was sucking on a jawbreaker.
To make this all stop, all I had to do is get a haircut. It was a great disappointment to my father, he asked, and even tried to bribe me, but I stood firm. Then something happened with him. We had gone on a long family vacation to his hometown in the Midwest. The first day we drove downtown for a walking tour. He pointed out the movie theatre, and the malt shop. And we spent some time looking in at the Bakery where the best apple pie was sold.
Continuing the walk towards the city park we witnessed an accident. Well, it wasn’t an accident yet, but there was screeching tires and blue smoke. Behind the blue smoke there were three pairs of arms, maybe more, all with index fingers pointing at me as if had just landed from Mars. Not a lot of words, just open mouths. My father asked if this kind of thing happened often? I said no, “they usually just jump out and start running at me”.
He never asked me to cut my hair again.
I will say that opportunities came, and some never showed. I couldn’t get a normal teenage job. I couldn’t be seen by the public and I couldn’t even be trusted by the public. Dope crazed hippies was soon a label that the media adopted. Herb Caen, a columnist for the San Francisco Chronicle, had coined the label “Beatniks” for the Beat Culture of the 1950s, and in the late 1960s he coined the term “Hippie” for the long-haired hipsters. We hated it, we didn’t use it, and we even had a funeral service where we buried the last hippie (a bearded manakin) in the Panhandle of Golden Gate Park.
So that meant I didn’t have the rewards of a solid work ethic. I never got the chance. I was encouraged to read the Beat Poets, but not Robert Frost. I didn’t read Hemingway, but got immersed in Henry Miller. I hitch-hiked around the country with either “The Way of Zen”, or Kerouac’s “On the Road”, sticking out of my back pocket. In later years it was Walt Whitman’s “Leaves of Grass”. You are what you read!
It’s true that anyone could read these, but they were defined as “hip” by some.
Was this some sort of nefarious plot? To ruin young Americans with drugs, offending books, and political riots? There are people on both sides who see this possibility. I’m certain about the pimples and the big ears.
And of course in 1969 there was the musical “Hair”, and here are the lyrics of the title song…
She asks him why
“Why I’m a hairy guy?”
I’m hairy noon and nighty-night night
My hair is a fright
I’m hairy high and low
But don’t ask me why
‘Cause he don’t know
It’s not for lack of bread
Like the Grateful Dead
Darlin’
Gimme a head with hair
Long, beautiful hair
Shining, gleaming
Streaming, flaxen, waxen
Give me down to there (Hair!)
Shoulder length or longer hair (Hair!)
Here baby, there mama
Everywhere daddy daddy
Hair (Hair! Hair! Hair! Hair! Hair! Hair!)
Grow it, show it
Long as I can grow it
My hair
I let it fly in the breeze
And get caught in the trees
Give a home for the fleas in my hair
A home for fleas
A hive for the buzzin’ bees (buzzin’ beeeeeeeesssss)
A nest for birds
There ain’t no words
For the beauty, the splendor, the wonder
Of my…
Hair (Hair! Hair! Hair! Hair! Hair! Hair!)
Grow it, show it
Long as I can grow it
My hair
I want it long, straight, curly, fuzzy
Snaggy, shaggy, ratsy, matsy
Oily, greasy, fleecy
Shining, gleaming, streaming
Flaxen, waxen
Knotted, polka-dotted
Twisted, beaded, braided
Powdered, flowered, and confettied
Bangled, tangled, spangled, and spaghettied!
Oh say can you see
My eyes if you can
Then my hair’s too short
Down to here
Down to there
Down to there?
Down to where?
It stops by itself
Don’t never have to cut it
‘Cause it stops by itself
Oh give me a head with hair
Long, beautiful hair
Shining, gleaming
Streaming, flaxen, waxen
Won’t you gimme it down to there (Hair!)
Shoulder length or longer (Hair!)
Here baby, there mama
Everywhere daddy daddy
Hair (Hair! Hair! Hair! Hair! Hair! Hair!)
Grow it
Show it
Long as I can grow it
My hair (Hair! Hair! Hair! Hair! Hair! Hair!)
Grow it
Show it
Long as I can grow it
My hair (Hair! Hair! Hair! Hair! Hair! Hair! Hair! Hair! Hair! Hair! Hair! Hair! Hair! Hair! Hair! Hair!)
Hair!
Such a long and tedious song.
As I said, from 1970 to 1971 I had a buzz-cut, just stubble where my hair should have been. We called it high and tight. From 1971 to 1973 I had a regular hair cut, like a regular guy. And yet, as soon as I left the military, “I let my freak flag fly”.
I did my diligence to do the best research possible. I found two articles that were interesting, and focused on the impact of long hair of young men in high school.
JSTOR is a digital library of academic journals, books, and primary sources. It is freely accessed and very useful.
The two articles are…
“The High School Hair Wars of the 1960s” by Matthew Wills, March 10, 2018, JSTOR Daily
“Flaunting the Freak Flag: Karr v. Schmidt and the Great Hair Debate in American High Schools, 1965-1975” by Gael Graham, Sept., 2004, The Journal of American History, Vol. 91, No. 2
While both articles are well written, well researched, they read to me as detached history. The difference of reporting on D-Day, and experiencing Utah Beach.