On Being a Sort-of Hippie, circa 1968-72 - Different Times
I'm not sure exactly what qualified one to be a hippie. The definition at the time was unclear, as were many definitions of many things, as I remember.
Being in one's 20s and in or near a college or university during the late 1960s, I'd think, would be one of the requirements. Maybe smoking more grass than was good for you, too. Maybe consuming some other assorted chemicals that affect the brain, as well.
I did all of those things, as well as wearing my hair long and my clothing oddly. But, I also bought a house in 1974, and eked out a living in a legitimate way. I guess I was a sort-of hippie, along with my then wife. She was probably more of one than I was, really. She was, and remains, a feminist, and we're still friends, although we took different paths after 17 years together. Here's a story from those days that demonstrates that finding definitions, including the definition of feminism, was difficult, really.
Before we bought our tiny little house, we lived in a rental house near Morro Bay, CA. It had an ancient septic tank that frequently needed attention. The absentee landlord, who lived in another state, trusted me to call someone to deal with it and paid the bills for the work. The guy who did septic tank pumping in town was an older guy with some odd ideas about manners and the like.
One time when he came to that house, after I had dug a hole big enough to give him access to the top of the tank, he was standing near that hole, about to start pumping the tank out. He was smoking a cigarette, holding it between the fingers of a big yellow rubber glove that looked like it had seen much service around septic tanks. Disconcerting, that cigarette was.
My then wife, curious about the inner workings of a septic tank, walked up and was standing next to the septic tank guy, looking down into the hole like we were doing. Septic tank guy looked over at her and, after a minute, said:
"So, missy...you one of those loose-titty hippie girls?"
No doubt, the question probably came from looking at her, since she was dressed in a loose fitting top, which probably exposed her breasts while she was bent over slightly, looking down into the hole. Unflappable, not to mention bra-less, as always, she smiled at the septic tank guy and said:
"Well, I suppose I am, now that you mention it."
Everyone laughed. The tank got pumped. We got on with our lives, but now had a story about the septic tank guy. Those were good, if strange, times!
Note: This post, in a slightly different form exists in another thread of mine on a different topic. So, I reposted it as an OP.
= new reply since forum marked as read
To the septic tank guy, it was sort of a logical question. He didn't ask it in a sarcastic or obviously insulting way. He never said much at all, really. My then wife apparently saw it as just a question, found it amusing, and answered it. The reality was that she actually was, and identified as, a "loose titty hippie girl." The guy saw that, so he asked. I'm sure he meant no insult. He just saw her as different, somehow.
Several years later, in the mid 1980s, I was writing a woodworking book. My editor shipped me a newfangled PC clone computer, because the book was going to be done, print-ready, on the computer, with no power manuscript. One of the first of its kind. Anyhow, he flew out to California to show me how the formatting, etc. would be done. I had already been studying that, so I was ahead of the game.
Anyhow, I suggested that I show him some of the sights on the California coat, where I lived. He was from Minnesota. One of the places I drove him to was a very scenic cove, not far from my home. It was January, but a nice warm day. We got there, parked and started walking down the beach toward the water.
There was someone sunbathing on the beach, a woman, clearly not wearing a bathing suit. I changed our direction a little, so as not to alarm her. Just then, she looked up at us, and then stood up and said, "Hi, George!" It was a friend of mine and my wife's. I waved, said hi to her, but didn't change our direction. She resumed her sunbathing.
Later, my editor commented, "Things really ARE different in California!"
when women were treated like they were playthings, and they didn’t even mind it!
I think your wife made the right decision.
