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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PenneyVanderbilt 
Its not my first time to visit this website, i am visiting this web page dailly and get pleasant facts
from here all the time.
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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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Thank You
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Such an interesting perspective, and refreshingly far from the cliché, love it!
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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.
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I appreciate your concern in all aspects.
I thank-you for Re-blogging my Posts.
Amen!
Shiva
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Great story!
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Phew, what an amazing story mate. Glad to follow a fellow writer and story teller. Have a brilliant weekend
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Thank you; Enjou you too!
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https://kopibrebes.wordpress.com/
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