Dangerously organic!

The Farm

I remember the house next to Lucy Brown’s. She and I would drop by as we
ran around playing back in the 60’s. We’d go inside and he’d be playing
Janis Joplin on the record player. The door was always open. My next
door neighbor’s name was Janet Joplin, so I always was intrigued by
Janis’s gravely voice. I listened to the lyrics over and over again. I
began to understand them on about the 50th or 60th time. I could feel a
different feeling in Lucy’s next door neighbor’s house. The people who
visited had been in Vietnam. I listened to the stories as they looked
back. I heard them, felt them enjoying similar feelings. I tried to
understand what they were talking about as they looked for jobs. They
talked about the hospital where they got help. Sometimes, I didn’t see
any bandages. I wondered what they were talking about. After a while, I
realized they were getting help there by talking, just like in the
house.

Nobody called themselves a hippy. It’s taken me a while to figure out why
people these days refer to hippys disparagingly. Back then, there
weren’t a bunch of bumper stickers, patches and people who purposely
wore worn out clothes. I still have a hard time with the concept of
buying something new that’s stone washed or torn.

I met Jose the other day in a local restaurant through mutual friends. I
spoke a little Spanish with him when we met. I said “Mi llamo Miguel,
como esta?” and “Mucho gusto”, things like that. Lots of people who
speak Spanish as a first language don’t like to speak Spanish here in
America. But, Jose realized that I was trying to practice one, and two,
enjoying his fine accent and diction. We both chose chimichurri with tempeh from an array of choices on the menu...

Stay tuned for the rest of the story!

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