Oh, this is a wonderful piece, especially the way you address and explore and try to make sense of such early memories. I really like the distinction between your contemporary writer self and your child self - and Bolinas! I grew up in the Bay Area around that time, and it was always a fantasy that beckoned. I’ve tried to recreate my sense of living in the wild on my own terms, at times, but I completely understand the need for lights and a much better sense of safety with the other humans nearby 😉
Thank you so much, Martha. Your comment was wonderful to read. It's fascinating to hear that you've also had that instinct to capture/transmute some of the atmosphere of that era. Would love to hear more about that. What a great continuation of our discussion of teaching writing from your own piece!
An added thought: I came up with the pen name “Linnesby” for this village in Sweden after great thought, based on the Swedish word for flax and the common town-name ending “-by.” (Have written about that in more detail elsewhere on the Substack.). But on rereading this, I see for the first time that it shares all of its consonants with “Bolinas.” That is more than a little disconcerting.
I understand why your dad loved that photo. I too was in the Bay Area in the 60’ and70’s. I furnished my hippie pad with archaic utopian props from the Whole Earth Catalogue—including oil-burning lamps that WOULD singe a careless user. I had some land in Mendocino County; never built on it, just went there to camp under the stars—usually, alone, but sometimes with one or both of my young daughters, then about your age in the picture. For a segment of our generation, “far out” was more than a stoned descriptor; it was a destination—a dreamt place we sought actually to inhabit. Bolinas was definitely a candidate for its physical location. I drove through the area repeatedly on my treks north, and felt its pull every time. It struck me, as I read, that the very name of "Linnesby" has a certain idyllic phonetical ring to it, not unlike that of "Bolinas." Or (come to think…) of "Ukiah."
Thank you for these comments, Mark! Trust a poet to recognize the phonetic overlaps between ”Linnesby” and ”Bolinas” when I never did myself until this very morning.
It's so nice to hear about your experiences back then. The Mendocino nights must have been beautiful, and It's not impossible that you and my folks knew each other.
In truth I have mixed feelings about that time, and trying to sort them out — to grapple with the idyllic nature along with my own memories — is probably why I decided to start writing about it.
You may remember that in those days Bolinas liked to keep itself off the map a bit, so just writing about by its real name now is a bit of an experience in itself.
Those lamps! It took months before I could really relax around the electric copies, no burning of hair with those :)
Oh, there are definitely two sides to the hippie saga and its political side effects. My daughters, like you, have since come to realize and ponder painfully their own mixed feelings. Me too. I have made stabs at writing about it in detail, only to pull up short--so far, unable or unwilling to revisit those times. Deep societal trauma underlay all of it, whatever our personal stories were.
It's really interesting to talk about here, perhaps especially from an intergenerational perspective. I'll probably be posting a bit more memoir-type stuff from that era, and if so will consider setting up a chat or thread or whatever they're called, likely for subscribers only so as to keep it off search engine results.
On the societal trauma, yes. I recently chided someone (gently) on this platform for highlighting some private 1971 comments that Seamus Heaney made ridiculing his hippie poetry students at Berkeley that year. The chiding wasn't for highlighting the comments, of course, but for enjoying how funny they were while ignoring the fact that Heaney was ignoring everything that his students were dealing with at a societal level just then.
The whole exchange made me realize that those kids were the same 20-30 something adults who were around in my middle-childhood. It gave a new perspective, in some ways.
If you end up writing about it, would be glad to read.
Wow, the story of being dragged away by the Ocelot is extraordinary and a brilliant example of an ‘what if?’ Start of a strong or a novel. What if she had succeeded and tried to raise you as her own? (And it makes me so sad to think of her being abandoned after raised as a pet). That pic of your dad is lovely. And I love the detail of the cow bell around your neck.
Oh, this is a wonderful piece, especially the way you address and explore and try to make sense of such early memories. I really like the distinction between your contemporary writer self and your child self - and Bolinas! I grew up in the Bay Area around that time, and it was always a fantasy that beckoned. I’ve tried to recreate my sense of living in the wild on my own terms, at times, but I completely understand the need for lights and a much better sense of safety with the other humans nearby 😉
Thank you so much, Martha. Your comment was wonderful to read. It's fascinating to hear that you've also had that instinct to capture/transmute some of the atmosphere of that era. Would love to hear more about that. What a great continuation of our discussion of teaching writing from your own piece!
Enjoyed reading this out loud at breakfast. Happy you survived it all.
Aw, thank you, Seth! There is no greater praise than that, to my mind. Thank you!
An added thought: I came up with the pen name “Linnesby” for this village in Sweden after great thought, based on the Swedish word for flax and the common town-name ending “-by.” (Have written about that in more detail elsewhere on the Substack.). But on rereading this, I see for the first time that it shares all of its consonants with “Bolinas.” That is more than a little disconcerting.
I understand why your dad loved that photo. I too was in the Bay Area in the 60’ and70’s. I furnished my hippie pad with archaic utopian props from the Whole Earth Catalogue—including oil-burning lamps that WOULD singe a careless user. I had some land in Mendocino County; never built on it, just went there to camp under the stars—usually, alone, but sometimes with one or both of my young daughters, then about your age in the picture. For a segment of our generation, “far out” was more than a stoned descriptor; it was a destination—a dreamt place we sought actually to inhabit. Bolinas was definitely a candidate for its physical location. I drove through the area repeatedly on my treks north, and felt its pull every time. It struck me, as I read, that the very name of "Linnesby" has a certain idyllic phonetical ring to it, not unlike that of "Bolinas." Or (come to think…) of "Ukiah."
Thank you for these comments, Mark! Trust a poet to recognize the phonetic overlaps between ”Linnesby” and ”Bolinas” when I never did myself until this very morning.
It's so nice to hear about your experiences back then. The Mendocino nights must have been beautiful, and It's not impossible that you and my folks knew each other.
In truth I have mixed feelings about that time, and trying to sort them out — to grapple with the idyllic nature along with my own memories — is probably why I decided to start writing about it.
You may remember that in those days Bolinas liked to keep itself off the map a bit, so just writing about by its real name now is a bit of an experience in itself.
Those lamps! It took months before I could really relax around the electric copies, no burning of hair with those :)
Oh, there are definitely two sides to the hippie saga and its political side effects. My daughters, like you, have since come to realize and ponder painfully their own mixed feelings. Me too. I have made stabs at writing about it in detail, only to pull up short--so far, unable or unwilling to revisit those times. Deep societal trauma underlay all of it, whatever our personal stories were.
It's really interesting to talk about here, perhaps especially from an intergenerational perspective. I'll probably be posting a bit more memoir-type stuff from that era, and if so will consider setting up a chat or thread or whatever they're called, likely for subscribers only so as to keep it off search engine results.
On the societal trauma, yes. I recently chided someone (gently) on this platform for highlighting some private 1971 comments that Seamus Heaney made ridiculing his hippie poetry students at Berkeley that year. The chiding wasn't for highlighting the comments, of course, but for enjoying how funny they were while ignoring the fact that Heaney was ignoring everything that his students were dealing with at a societal level just then.
The whole exchange made me realize that those kids were the same 20-30 something adults who were around in my middle-childhood. It gave a new perspective, in some ways.
If you end up writing about it, would be glad to read.
And you did!!
The photo of you and your father is enchantingly tender. What a childhood!
Thank you — I really appreciate your reading and commenting. This is an interesting thing, writing about that era for others as well as oneself.
such a poignant photo - like an image from a fairytale
Wow, the story of being dragged away by the Ocelot is extraordinary and a brilliant example of an ‘what if?’ Start of a strong or a novel. What if she had succeeded and tried to raise you as her own? (And it makes me so sad to think of her being abandoned after raised as a pet). That pic of your dad is lovely. And I love the detail of the cow bell around your neck.
Thank you! It's great to read this, see what resonated! I appeciate the comment.