un ancien hippie

Une Ancienne Hippie
Une Ancienne Hippie
What is a Hippie? A Hippie is a Riddle.
We hate war. We love peace. We protest. We still do: Not in the streets anymore; instead I am active in “Democrats Abroad France”
When called, we serve. I served in the United States Army in the Vietnam War. We still hate the leaders who brought it about, but we remember others who served. Each year on American Memorial Day, I go to Draguignan, France and lay a wreath for the 27 American friends and 1 French friend who lost their lives in this stupid war.
Eventually we wake up and take care of our bodies. I have never pierced or painted my body anyway. I eat cereals and tofu. Even my exposure to “Agent Orange” in Vietnam is under control.
Yes, we still march around in cool costumes and wear custom jewelry (from the Adirondack Mountains of New York State for me).
Many of us have a “gift from God”. Mine is writing.
None of us could make it in a bank, but I made it big in the General Electric Company (GE) because they recognized my “gift”.
Today, I write for companies that interest me: an ice hockey team, several railroads (my hobby anyway)
Most of us have problems with partners. After a bad false start, I ended up for a LOT of great years with a Corsican (born in Casablanca where her father was the préfet, degree from La Sorbonne in Paris, once taught school in Tahiti). Never spoke French to me. A great son still remains.
We like animals. Mine is named “Kittie Cow” because he resembles the black and white cow found in Northern France.
I heard the first person to live to be 150 years old has already been born. I think I am that person!




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14 thoughts on “un ancien hippie”

  1. nice post! my dad worked for the Indian Railways and we have great memories growing up in that environment! i totally understand your love for locomotives! I have lived amongst them all my life 🙂

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  2. My Heart Needs A Home

    Doesn’t yours? Roaming Merrie Woods and Toxaway Falls
    where kayaks glide, cattails distend into cottony seed puffs,
    we discover the essence of each other. Photos snapped as wind
    comes to sailing level entertain beneath Jackson’s half dome.
    Gems, but mostly agates, sit underground, along river beds,
    few found. Lips feel the feathery touch of willow, tangled
    hair straightens at fingers command, knees bent, prone to the
    correct angle to capture sunbathing elder who reads as he sits
    in an Adirondack chair on the eastern continental divide, three
    thousand four hundred eighty six feet, make it eighty five,
    above sea level. Black bear images at first fool newcomers,
    into serenity, but the live scroungers will be around in person.
    This is where it all begins. Doe emerges below newly stained
    deck, wobbles, shakes off mom’s sticky womb extras. Walking
    the lake trail, finding the right overlook, slipping on mossy rocks,
    launching tomorrow today. Misunderstandings disappear when
    genuine care initiates a navigational victory on the Blue Ridge
    looking south to the Smokeys, in the servants’ staircase, among
    well-planted gardens, over festive lunch, a metaphor of chicken,
    enjoyed with the self esteem of roast beef on gluten-free bread.

    Like

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