Tags
This story appeared in DeltaStyle magazine, May 2002
From time to time, I like to open up my wallet and reach way in the back, behind the driver’s license, the health insurance documents, the credit cards and the AARP card. I pull out my old Louisiana Tech ID from the early 70s, and pass it around to my children’s friends. “Wow!!!, look at that hair! It’s down past your shoulders. Were you a hippie? We learned about them in history class. Did you smoke dope, and have a lot of ‘free love’ and say ‘groovy’?”
That hurts. I have to explain that I was not a bona fide hippie. I was more of a hippie-wannabe–a dilettantippie, I guess. The much ballyhooed 60s did not reach northern Louisiana until the 70s, and then only in a diluted form. When I graduated from high school in 1968, all the boys had “whitewall” haircuts–cut well above their ears. I spent a bit of time in southern California before and after a year in the Pacific in 1970-71, and amazed myself by walking around San Diego’s Balboa Park, gawking at the long-haired guys and their beautiful “hippie” girlfriends.
“That’s for me,” I thought forlornly, sitting dejectedly alone beneath my Marine Corps haircut, or in the company of other similarly-coiffed doofuses. “As soon as I get my discharge, I’m gonna grow my hair, live the simple life, and get heavily involved in some of this much-esteemed ‘free love’ that everybody in the world, except me, seems to be enjoying.”
When I got home from the Frontiers of Democracy, so to speak, I did, indeed, begin to grow my hair. I never was able to get too involved with any dope smoking, and the highly-publicized free love was substantially more elusive than I’d been led to expect. The allure of the simplified lifestyle, however, was a lasting dream that has stayed with me for over thirty years, and I find myself drawn deeper and deeper into its delights with each passing year.
A couple of months ago, I found myself in the shower, singing one of those old seventies hippie songs that irritate the kids as much as Lil Bow Wow does me. Arlo Guthrie, maybe. (Author’s note, 2007: It was John Prine.)
Blew up the teevee,
Threw away the paper,
Went to the country,
Made me a home.
I started thinking, “You know, I’ll bet I haven’t turned on the television twice in the last month. It’s foolish for me to be paying for ‘expanded basic cable television’ when I don’t even watch it.” I called the cable company. “I want to cut my service back to ‘basic cable’.” The lady gasped. I don’t think anyone had ever done that. I just love doing cutting-edge stuff. After spending considerable time convincing her that I was serious, she agreed.
My kids live with me two weeks out of four. I waited, most anxiously, for their return on Monday afternoon. I was at work when Hubert got off the school bus at 4:00. At 4:05, the phone rang. “Did you know something’s wrong with the tv? I can only get about twenty channels, and I can’t get Nickelodeon. None of these stations are any good.” “Nothing’s wrong with the set. I cut back on the service.” Although we were six miles apart, I could tell that he was doing the “Hubert Dance”. This involves standing upright, with arms hanging at one’s sides, then very rapidly lifting one foot after the other, much like running-in-place, head elevated, eyes shut, while moaning “Dad-deeeeee”. It is a most entertaining performance.
“Do you realize that we can’t even get Spongebob Squarepants anymore?” I had not considered this. Spongebob Squarepants is the only television program in the universe that I find worthwhile. Mr. Squarepants is not, apparently, an actual aquatic, benthic sponge, member of the phylum Porifera, but rather a synthetic, square, bathroom sponge. He does, however, live at the bottom of the ocean, in a giant pineapple in the community of Bikini Bottom, hangs around with his dullard friend, Patrick (a starfish), and constantly annoys his cranky cephalopodic neighbor, Squidward. It is a terrifically amusing program. I was, however, strong. “Abraham Lincoln did not get to watch Spongebob. Think of this as a character builder. You may grow up to be president.”
I found, much to my surprise, that television watching dropped to almost nothing, without whining or complaint. We spent our evenings reading, doing homework, listening to my extensive CD collection, which now totals five volumes, and going to bed at a reasonable hour. During the two weeks they spent with their mother, I put Phase 2 into effect. “This is George Sims again. Please cancel my cable subscription completely.” The woman was shocked into silence. “Are you sure?” “Yes. Cut the line. Take it out completely.” “Well, we won’t do that. We’ll leave the line in place, since you will surely change your mind, but we’ll turn off your service.”
I felt cleansed. I made sure that I was at home when the children returned. It only took a few minutes for them to notice. “What is that thing on top of the television?” “Those, my dear offspring, are ‘rabbit ears’. That’s what people use who have no cable television whatsoever. Through their use, television is beamed magically through the air, without benefit of either cable or satellite. I suspect that, with careful adjustment, we should be able to receive five stations–CBS, NBC, ABC, Fox, and PBS.” My estimate was about 40% too high. Forget Fox and ABC. I don’t think I have authentic rabbit ears. Maybe rat ears. The kids quickly adjusted to receiving only two stations (they don’t count PBS as a station), and they don’t watch either of them. This is Great!
So here we are, lolling about on a weekday night, a couple of candles burning in the living room, the Beatles on the stereo, Maggie doing her homework, Hubert engrossed in the third volume of Harry Potter, and me in the recliner, stroking the cat and reading Mother Earth News. I hadn’t had a haircut in awhile, and I’m feeling really groovy.
I just love Mother Earth News, and I recommend that you mail in your subscription form today. You can use the money you save by canceling your cable television service. I’m reading all these articles about organic gardening, and composting, and raising goats and chickens, and becoming more and more inspired as the evening tires. The phone rings. My girlfriend. “I’ve been thinking about the flower beds in front of your house,” she begins. “What about them?” “They have no flowers. They have no anything. They are naked.” “No problem. We’ll borrow your dad’s tiller, run down to Monroe, grab some stuff, and have it fixed up in no time.” We borrowed the tiller, couldn’t get it to run, took it to the repair shop, tilled up the beds, and in no time, I had the beds ready. I washed and returned the tiller, tickled to death.
Amanda’s stepparents raise some very fine, very expensive horses, and they had graciously allowed me to haul away all the very fine, very expensive horse manure I wanted. I wanted two truckloads. Hubert begged to stay at home while I went to fetch the loads. I, however, allowed him to help. I just love watching the Hubert Dance. The guys who tend the grounds at City Hall agreed to give me all the grass clippings, which they were going to throw away. I started a compost pile in the backyard, and it was cooking happily away.
By then, the old hippie gardening bug had hit, hard. The kids weren’t glued to the television, the front yard looked full of promise, and I still hadn’t had a haircut in awhile. I didn’t even miss the dope smoking and the free love, with neither of which I had significant experience, anyway.
Saturday morning, I grab Hubert, and we speed off to Monroe, brandishing my Lowe’s and Home Depot credit cards wildly. “Where are we going?” “Watch and learn, my boy. Feel the Call of the Earth.” He rolled his eyes. Had he not been seated, and securely strapped into his seatbelt, I believe he would have begun the Hubert Dance. He knew that Daddy Had a Project, and that it would probably require some physical labor on his part. Sullen may be an understatement.
By noon, the back of the truck was full. I had a brand-new tiller (green in color, five-and-a-half horsepower, front tines). I had bought a couple dozen azalea bushes (Snow White variety), twenty boxwoods, some more azaleas (Pride of Mobile, this time), and as many little trays of a nifty little orangish flower called “impatiens” as I could carry. Got some white ones, too. Oh, and a couple of camellias, as well.
Just as I was pulling out of the parking lot, Amanda drove up. She looked in the back of the truck, then at me, with a funny look in her eye. “What are you doing? Did you skip your medications this morning?” “My dear woman. You may be unaware that ‘George’ is an ancient name, which translates to ‘farmer; tiller of the soil’. I am merely following my nature, thanks to the liberal credit policies of the fine folks at Lowe’s and the Home Depot.” She held a quick conference with Hubert, out of my earshot, but which involved a lot of gesturing, shrugging, and pained expressions. “Meet me at my house in a couple of hours,” I shouted merrily, as I drove away. “Be prepared to work, Woman of the Soil!”
She showed up, as promised, bearing a gift. I now had my own, heavy-duty trowel, complete with the Better Homes and Gardens logo. Hubert had retreated into the house, staring at the blank television screen, while Amanda and I worked feverishly for a couple of hours, lining the front bed with the boxwoods, camellias, white azaleas and orange impatiens. When we finished, I was amazed. This looks good. I can’t believe it.
Over the next couple of weeks, I tilled up an enormous vegetable garden in the backyard. I tilled a large circular area around my sundial, approximately sixty-four square feet in area. Into that area, I dumped an entire sack of wildflower seeds, suitable for attracting butterflies and hummingbirds, and sufficient for planting 800 square feet. Never can attract too many butterflies and hummingbirds, I reasoned. I put the pink azaleas and white impatiens in a row in front of my old ragged cookhouse. I moved and expanded the compost pile.
We spent a day in Natchitoches, at a plant and garden show, returning with a truck full of herbs (legal varieties only). I installed an herb garden at her house, and a smaller one in my front yard–peppermint, spearmint, sage, rosemary, chamomile, and lavender. I went down to the Feed & Seed and bought vegetable plants and seeds–Big Boy, Better Boy, Beefsteak, Creole, and Roma tomatoes; crookneck and spaghetti squash; zucchini; cucumbers; bell, jalapeño, habañero, and tabasco peppers; sweet corn; and plenty of marigolds (for Mother Earth-style organic pest control). All the time I was tilling and planting, I was barefooted and shirtless and singing what my children call the Stupid Hippie Garden Song. I think that may be one of Arlo’s, as well:
Inch by inch,
Row by row,
Gonna make this garden grow.
All it takes is a rake and a hoe,
And a piece of fertile ground.
Inch by inch,
Row by row,
Please bless the seeds we sow.
Please keep them safe below
‘Til the rains come tumblin’ down.
Got the birdbath installed last night. It’s an old plow, mounted on an upright concrete culvert, with a disc blade attached horizontally to hold the water. My dad bolted our mailbox to it in the 1950s, and my wife arranged to have it moved from the old home place a few years ago as a Christmas gift. Gonna plant some Carolina jasmine around it. Corn’s coming up. Wildflowers are starting to show, and I’m making plans for some peach trees on the south side of the house next year. The azaleas and boxwoods have doubled in size, and I planted some stuff called “running vinca” all around my bonfire ring, where friends gather to drink beer, eat fish, and listen to fiddle music. I can’t believe I planted this stuff and it’s all still alive.
Back to the first hippie song.
Plant a little garden,
Raised a lotta children.
They all found Jesus
On their own.
Still haven’t had a haircut in awhile, and I can even gather it back into a little ponytail, should I desire, as I sometimes do. Hair is, I believe, a harmless entertainment. I often tell my short-haired son that we, of the “hippie generation,” fought and died for his right to wear long hair. He is not convinced, and still prefers to display hair slightly longer than that found on a coconut. I don’t think he’s even done the Hubert Dance lately, except when I assigned him to scrub the commodes last week. The television is not missed, and we laze about after supper, enjoying the quiet, although I sometimes wish I knew what Spongebob’s doing. Life is mellower than it’s been in a long time, although I still regret not figuring out that “free love” stuff back in the day. Life seems, indeed, to be simpler. I’ve haven’t thrown away the paper yet, but that may be next. Simple things for simple minds, you may be saying. Be that as it may, Life, as always, is Good.