In 1965 Grace Slick and her husband formed the Great Society in San Francisco. They released 'SOMEONE TO LOVE' as a live single on Autumn Records with Sly Stone as the producer. Sadly Grace left the band to join the Jefferson Airplane, which scored a huge hit with their version of SOMEONE TO LOVE.
To hear the Great Society SOMEONE TO LOVE, please go to the following URL
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XsS9NJ36tnQ
Marijuana was demonized throughout my youth. The Boston police treated reefer smokers as harshly as junkies. John Sinclair, the MC5's radical spokesperson, was sentenced to ten years of prison for the crime of ‘giving’ an undercover agent two joints. The severity of his punishment did not deter the millions of marijuana smokers of the 60s from burnign the weed and the herb found more and more disciples after the Summer of Love.
Cute girls hit the bong. John Lennon was arrested for possession. Football players got high.
I remained straight.
Drugs were for someone else.
I liked beer.
My friends were converts. They smoked in my VW Beetle. In the summer of 1969 John Gilmour lit up a joint of Columbian Red on the way back from Nantasket Beach. I opened the sunroof to avoid a contact high.
"You're missing out on a good thing." He sat in the front seat.
"It's against the law."
"So is speeding, but you're ten miles over the speed limit."
"That's different." I slowed down, because the town cops on Route 3A loved busting teenagers.
"Your loss." John passed the joint to Frank Ames. He had just returned from Vietnam. Only John had long hair.
NO TIME LEFT FOR YOU by the Guess Who was playing on WMEX.
They were having a good time. I felt left out. We pulled up to a red light in Hingham and I said, “Let me have some.”
“No.”
The three of them argued briefly that one of us had to be straight.
“Why?”
They didn’t have a good answer and I grabbed the joint from John.
I had smoked a cigarette in 1964 and coughed like I was losing a lung then.
I feared the same result from the joint, but inhaled deeply on the joint.
I was a long-distance runner. I didn’t exhale for 30 seconds. The plume of smoke from my mouth clouded up the VW.
"I don't feel anything."
“That’s normal,” John said in a dream.
"Wait. This pot creeps up on you," Frank warned from the back seat.
The light turned green.
"That color is so beautiful."
"Yeah." John agreed with me.
"Someone got high." Frank closed his eyes.
The radio played The Misunderstood' CHILDREN OF THE SUN. We didn’t move for the entire song.
A horn broke the trance. We were holding up traffic. I shifted into first and we drove to John’s house in Wollaston to smoke another joint.
I was no longer straight.
“I’m hungry,” Frank announced after listening to FREAK OUT. He had another week of furlough before returning to Vietnam. “What about fried clams?”
“Tony’s or the Clambox?” I could go either way.
“The girls in bikinis hang out at the Clambox.” Frank rolled another joint.
“Tony’s has better clams.” John was a picky eater.
“Let’s eat at both,” I suggested, since they were only a short distance apart.
It was a good choice.
And so was turning on to marijuana.
To hear this classic garage acid song from the 60s, please go to the following URL
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=04u1E_koJ4Q
My father loved a good storm and in 1960 Hurricane Donna in 1960 hit New England as a category 2/3 storm on the second Monday of September. WBZ announced numerous school closing. My primary school, Our Lady of the Foothills, was one of the first on the list. My older brother and I were happy to stay home. We were new kids in town.
That morning a raging gale howled against our split-level ranch house and the windows vibrated in their sashes. The electricity died at noon and my father lit a kerosene lamp on the kitchen table. Our family of eight huddled around the flame like Neanderthals sheltering in a cave.
Several hours later the hurricane abated to what seemed a whisper.
"The eye of the storm." My father rose from his chair and motioned for my older brother and me to follow him to the front door.
"Where are you going?" my mother demanded with arms on her hips. She was a beautiful woman, but her voice rang with the authority of someone who had carried six babies in her womb.
"Outside to show them the eye."
"Hurricanes are not a joke." My mother had been through the 1938 hurricane. It didn't have a name. Hundreds of New Englanders had been killed in its path.
"I know." My father shrugged weakly.
Hurricane Edna in 1954 had destroyed his sailboat on Watchic Pond. The hull lay in the backyard. Six years later he had yet to repair the damage to the mast. Six kids were a lot of work. He pointed out the living room window. "The skies have cleared. We'll only be a few minutes."
"I wanna go too." My second youngest brother bounced off his chair. My mother grabbed his wrist.
"Only a few minutes." My mother trusted my father to obey his promise. He loved her enough to convert to Catholicism.
"I'll keep them safe." My father led us outside. We lived in the shadow of Chickatawbut Hill. A sultry wind raced through the trees. Branches were scattered across the yard. Overhead a counter-clockwise swirl of the cloud funnel opened to the blue heavens.
"That is the eye of the storm."
The three of us 360ed on the lawn to gawk at the storm's awesome power and glory. Lightning pulsed within the cloud wall like the Aurora Borealis. If my best friend hadn't drowned a month ago, the cyclonic display would have reinforced my faith in the Almighty. Instead I said, "Wow."
Rain dotted the walkway. The brief respite was coming to an end, My mother yelled at us to get inside.
My father lifted his finger for another few seconds.
He had fought the Maine's Great Fire of 1949. I never had seen him scared other anything other than my mother's wrath. He quickly explained to my older brother and me how hurricanes formed in the tropics. We were 9 and 8. His meteorological lesson was lost on us, but the oppressive pressure of the powerful storm weighed heavily on our skin.
"Remember this for the rest of your life. Few people see this."
My mother's next demand was an ultimatum.
"If you don't come in, I'm locking the doors." She was serious.
"After it's over, we'll drive to Revere Beach." My father guided us inside the house.
The second half of the hurricane stuck within minutes and lasted into the evening. The weatherman on WBZ radio announced the all-clear message wagon, as we were going to sleep. School had been cancelled throughout New England. My father was excited as a child on Christmas Eve and he whispered a reminder.
"Tomorrow Revere Beach."
And the boyish joy in his voice kept us awake for another three minutes.
Tomorrow promised to be a big day.
