Memories, memories

At my age, one is always apprehensive about mental disintegration, fearful that one will lose precious memories or become confused about everyday activities. Today I heard a snatch of song on the radio, and a memory leaped out at me as fresh and clear as though it had happened yesterday. The song was "When you come to San Francisco, be sure to wear a flower in your hair." Forty-five years ago, and I was back in time in an instant, wandering down the sidewalk in Madrone Canyon, down past the house where the Jefferson Airplane musical group lived. There were hippies camping out down in that canyon, and Janis Joplin lived just above on a dead-end street that verged on a hiking trail that led up to the top of the mountain. Those were magical days, with young people experimenting with new lifestyles, and grownups like me protesting the Viet Nam War. There were peace marches from Market Street to Golden Gate Park, and streakers appearing from nowhere just for the shock they gave onlookers. Streakers were a phenomenon that I never quite unraveled. One day I was riding the bus home from work and as we went across the Golden Gate Bridge, the passengers all began looking out the windows in delight. There, in full view of the riders, was a line of about twenty people, all stark naked, jogging along at the side of the bridge. It was cold out there and some of them looked as though they were on the verge of a heart attack. Some even appeared to be staggering. The bridge is fairly long, and I assume that someone was meeting them at the other end with warm clothing. There were both young ladies and young men, and I'll bet they never tried that again! I had walked across that bridge myself, fully clothed, and almost froze to death.
My husband was a mail carrier in those days and he delivered mail to Janis Joplin's house. She was a delightful little character, always with a cup of coffee for him and a cheery greeting. She had purchased a rambling, redwood -shingled house and lived there with a large retinue of followers and musicians. She was generous and good-hearted and we used to go hear her sing in San Francisco. I could never understand the lyrics, and thought she could have done better, but she was very popular as a singer and people flocker to hear her. When she died at twenty-nine it was a tragic loss.
For many years I tried not to go back into the past, feeling that the future held more for me than just my memories. But sometimes a memory will pop up, and I guess I might as well let it linger a while. Tomorrow it may be gone.