Fortunate One

Born in the late fifties, our generation had a sense that there were trappings within the materialistic life. Only people born with a certain comfort might have the audacity to turn our backs on it... to think a "Back to the land" movement was romantic. Gypsy clothing, bright colors, home made homes, cabins, music, food and lifestyle were honorable, hand hewn from our own creativity. Or so we thought.

Riding the bus to school was a rather interesting study in contrasts. Certainly living in Orinda, we knew we didn't live in poverty. However while on the bus we could see how people with generations of money lived, generations with LOTS and LOTS of money. Hidden among ancient oaks, these spanish style estates dotted the perimeter of the Country Club life and it's sprawling golf course. These are the families whose sons would be invited to the Bohemian club. The daughters grew too beautiful for words and in the meantime wore the shortest tightest clothes in their tennis or cheerleaders outfits. Perfectly tanned arms and legs and teeth so straight and white they were blinding. If they were kind like Julie Eldridge we loved them if not, we hated them, albeit secretly. Not a good thing to publicly hate anybody rich or popular.

Alternative lifestyles of the rich and famous

By the 70's the hippest friends were getting high and beginning to steer away from any neat and tidy futures planned for them. The Vietnam war divided families, generations could not agree. A few guys left for Canada, the fortunate ones were deferred. My generation hated the war and the machine it stood for. We were the long haired, patchouli laden, patchwork covered flower children taking to the streets and then back to the land. By 14 both of my parents had died and when asked how I felt if my brother went to Vietnam, by a counselor, my reaction of tears was enough to get my brother out of the war, the only male left in the family. 

We leaned into music. Stephen Stills had penned "For what it's worth", Joni Mitchell gave us "Woodstock" Jimi Hendrix showed us his experience, the Dead were gathering the tribes. "White Rabbit" was not just another fairy tale. My brothers close friend, Xandor, had a recording studio in his parents garage. My brother was part owner in it's initial start. As a result I spent all my spare time soaking in the subtleties of an underground scene. We spent one night in the mobile van in Berkeley recording Jerry Garcia and David Grisman. (Of course I had no idea, at the time, what I was listening to, or the historical significance of that night.) My brother and I played music hours on end learning guitar and singing was a lifeline for me. The idea of living in a home made house in a community of like minded souls seemed like a sweet fantasy.

This has been a long and winding road. I spent years in Canada with my first husband in a small home close to a mountain creek with water that tastes like heaven. My brother and sister are married to Canadians and live there today. I walked beside the ocean this afternoon looking at homes I know now that I can never afford to live in and look back at a financial legacy squandered. This life is for learning, I have few regrets. I have loved and been loved and I have smarts enough to be able to take what's left and live a good life. Would I make different choices? Perhaps.

Somebody once said that our true wealth lies in our relationships, if that is true then I am richer than most.