Those Were the Days

Yesterday it was my great privilege and pleasure to attend a most delightful reception in a beautiful setting, with delicious food and beverages. But the best part of all was meeting again, after many, many years, some very dear friends from the past. I could scarcely believe that these well-dressed, mature (even gray-haired) gentlemen were the long-haired, bell-bottomed young Anti-war protesters of the sixties. I drifted down memory lane and remembered the many protests they had staged at Port Chicago and Golden Gate Park. I never knew where my son was from day to day, or whether he was in jail or the hospital. One afternoon I looked up from my desk at work and beheld a uniformed policeman standing in front of me. Without even considering why he was there, I blurted out, "What did he do? Where is he?" It turned out that the officer was seeking someone else who had written a forged check. But these earnest young idealists were always on my mind. Even though our son was a student, and had a high draft number, he felt morally obliged to protest the war, as did I as well. The sixties were both exciting and troubling, with flower children all over the place, and the aroma of marijuana drifting in the air. One day a marijuana plant was found growing in the back of my house, but in truth it didn't last long. Someone going by reached in through the fence and plucked it out.
My house was a refuge for runaways and wanderers through the neighborhood and I never knew how many overnight guests I would have on any given day. One little teenager escaped from Juvenile Hall and hid out in my garage for almost a week before I caught on and turned her in. I hated to do it but it had to be done. It probably was best for her safety and I certainly did not need to be cited for hargoring a fugitive.
The young draft-aged men had many ways of dealing with the problem of the draft. One young friend of ours fled to England, where he stayed for several years, only coming back after President Carter signed the Amnesty bill. Another went to Canada and two of them enlisted in the Army, one serving in Viet Nam and the other serving in Germany. Our son had a very high draft number and continued attending college so he was relatively secure but a neighbor's boy went underground until he was caught by the FBI at which time he enlisted. He was killed in a training accident about six months later.
I have always said that I didn't want to look back, but I could not help reminiscing about those long-gone days and as they were both exciting and troubling, I have many conflicting thoughts. My husband, still in the Air Force until 1969, was quite literally horrified that his son and wife would protest the decisions of their government. "Traitors," he cried. "Communists. Love your country or leave it." Luckily, he was stationed thousands of miles away, so there was little he could do. When he came home on furlough, we caught the full force of his wrath.
Yesterday is history and tomorrow is a mystery. So live for today. I will put away my memories and look to the future. I hope for a long time.