I am writing this story as an extension of Devon Pitlor's story "1952." His story is a prelude to my year, a moment in time when life was a stable entity for me, while the surrounding world was energized and vibrant - but something was missing…

1967 - Incense and Peppermints

By Katje Kaase

"Incense and peppermints,

meaningless nouns

Turn on, tune in, turn your

eyes around.

Beatniks and politics,

nothing is new.

a yardstick for lunatics, one

point of view.

Who cares what games we

choose?

Little to win, but nothing to lose."

Strawberry Alarm Clock

I had just finished watching "The Graduate" on my wide screen TV. I always loved that movie, especially Dustin Hoffman and his famous line "Are you trying to seduce me, Mrs. Robinson?" What sweet memories when Hoffman was young and so was I. He would go on to become an icon in motion picture history, with a fantastic portrayal of Willie Loman in "Death of a Salesman." And I would remain immobile - an English teacher, diligently counting down the days until summer vacation. My friend, Jerry, would be waiting for me in the hallway of our overcrowded high school, checking out the short skirts and low cut blouses of the seniors. He, too, felt stagnant in his role as teacher. Perhaps it was time for both of us to move on. At least he had a peculiar way of passing the time. Men can always create imaginary or real affairs with young girls. And he was virile, intelligent and most often high on drugs - which, of course, added to his charm and vibrancy as an English teacher. But Jerry was locked into the past, a span of time that he felt was ideal - a generation that sought peace even as it was embroiled in war.

I drove to work, the traffic congestion was equal to a mixing bowl full of alcoholic multicolored punch - vehicles blurred by me in intermittent hues, some tangled on the side of the road, some bumper to bumper in a heated rush, and still others, intertwined in a metallic crescendo of pain and death. I sped on, oblivious to the deafening roar of sirens and screeching tires. I blocked out much of the noise by listening to old tunes on my radio. The Beatles were singing "All I Really Need is Love, " very appropriate since I really was loveless at the moment. Thoughts of Jerry hurtled through my mind but he was just a good friend, whatever that meant. We had braved student teaching together and found jobs at the same high school. He was existential and lost in "Christian Barzoy" scenarios, a character he read about who had to have the perfect recipe for beauty, It was a fantastic creation that stopped Christian cold, creating heart attack symptoms over "one in ten thousand" encounters with girls or women. It was a "heart attack" that was enjoyable, sort of like a real one, where his pulse raced, his heart pounded and he became dizzy. Jerry was like this character and experienced the heart throbbing intensity when he recognized perfect symmetry in a female. But, alas, I was not one of them. Still, I could not find a more consummate friend. We were puzzle pieces that fit together perfectly, but the entire puzzle was never quite finished, lacking a patient and steady hand. Our destiny depended on a master planner, one who could perceive the colors and scene the puzzle would portray when complete. In this year, 2013, it was impossible to know how and why this would ever occur.

Finally, after miles of contorting around the ever changing lanes of angered species in machines far too fragile and defenseless, I arrived at the school. Jerry had already ogled all the eye candy in the hallway and it was time for us to role play as energetic, ego centered teachers of wisdom. The students were either wide eyed with drugs, lethargic due to sleeplessness or sullen with disgust for anyone labeled an adult. But there were always a few, very few, who were absorbent sponges, just waiting to caress our words, savor our thoughts and drink deep from the dregs of our knowledge. All the years of college never prepared us for the variety of humanoids who sat before us. We discovered, after years of experiments in lesson plans, outlines, notes, and preparation, it was best to go before this multitude with a battle plan. And that we did, exulting in our progress when an enlightened bright eyed student looked us straight in the eyes and understood. That was, indeed, worth all our efforts.

Continuing our college educations was fraught with obstacles but an admirable goal since it would lead to a higher salary. Jerry and I decided to enroll at our nearby college to obtain our Masters. It was this journey that led to an unusual experience. Since Jerry had to work as a bartender to supplement his income, he enrolled in classes later than I did. I had the luxury of taking classes at night since my parents had inherited money when my uncle passed away. I felt it was a good investment and drove to the college to register. I could have taken on line courses, but I enjoyed the interaction of fellow students and the campus atmosphere. I had no idea that this day would be déjà vu personified. As I checked out my first class which would start in a week, I found it to be in a dilapidated building at the edge of campus. I figured I'd peek in and then go for lunch at the student center. But, I noticed signs on the window. One read "Come to the Human Be-In in San Francisco - The Summer of Love." Another read "Make Love, Not War." I recalled that 1967 was the year when the Summer of Love was in full swing, but this was 2013. I stood on tiptoes to glare in a window and saw women wearing brightly colored, intricate patterned baby doll dresses with pumps. They wore pale pink lipstick. The men wore white pants and turtlenecks. Some had peace sign necklaces. I thought, perhaps, this was a costume party and I should quietly sneak away, but the pungent odor of pot, incense and peppermint, plus the music of The Grateful Dead, wafted out the partially open window. A woman wearing a mini skirt and satin blouse with a scarf tied around her neck came near the door. She told me to get in costume and return to her party. I thanked her but told her I had to go, although I continued to look through the window, amazed that everyone seemed so happy and friendly as they "grooved" to the music.

The weirdness finally got to me and I drove home. For some reason, my radio decided to take on a life of its own and I heard the song "Incense and Peppermints," a catchy tune from the year, yes, the same year as the party, 1967. I seemed to be in a time warp. I just had to tell Jerry about my encounter with the hippie type people in the old campus building. I called him when I returned home and he just passed it off as some type of reunion, but he was intrigued, especially since this was one puzzle piece that fit his mold - an existence that he longed to capture once again. He promised to meet me there the next day. And just to be on the safe side, Jerry said he'd come in costume. Of course, being Jerry, there he was in platform shoes, flared jeans, a psychedelic T-shirt and beads around his neck. I was not about to change my style - I was an observer only. He walked up to the door and strode in as if he belonged there, I could see wood paneling on the walls, a long green couch in three separate bed-length sections, a round walnut-top table supported by a central pedestal, and rust colored shag carpeting. A brick fireplace was off to the left. Everyone was drinking what looked like daiquiris and some had little umbrellas in them. Jerry was offered one as I peeked in my window - my observation point. He had been rotating from group to group, listening intently on their conversations. He finally took a large gulp from his drink and then looked quite ashen. He set his glass on the walnut table and almost ran to the door.

I knew something was extremely wrong. I said "what in the world is wrong, Jerry? You look terrible." He quickly explained that the conversations were all about the Vietnam War, peace rallies, Muhammad Ali being stripped of his boxing world championship for refusing to be inducted into the US army, race riots and looting everywhere, especially in Detroit, a new super model named Twiggy, the Beatles and "Sgt. Peppers Lonely Hearts Club Band," the movie "The Graduate," and talk of colored TV sets, Ralph Nader's book, Unsafe at Any Speed, interracial marriages, the first Super Bowl, Jimmy Hoffa's imprisonment, John McCain shot down over North Vietnam, the world's first heart transplant in South Africa, Apollo 1 destroyed in a fire on the launching pad, and strikes for teaching staff throughout the country for pay increases to keep pace with inflation. All the people were actually living in the year 1967 and he felt part of it, as if he fit right in.. We both remembered those days of free love, flowers in my hair, peace demonstrations and the harmony between people of the same age group. Jerry felt drawn to this era and the living fresco he just escaped from.

I asked for more details about the party or whatever it was. Jerry elaborated. He said there were outsiders there, watching this event, as if it were some type of reality TV program. He heard them say "they look so real and their clothes are exact replicas of the 1960's." One man had a play list that read "Living Fresco of 1967," as if it were a period piece that he paid to watch. A lady remarked "the smell of marijuana is intoxicating. Makes me recall all my frivolous days as a teenager." And Jerry reeked of pot when he flung open the door to return to me. He worried me when he finally said "they were not real, but they once were." I didn't understand. What did he mean - not real? They certainly appeared to be real to me. Jerry explained that he understood this to be a chosen eternity for souls of the dead. A bartender serving the daiquiris whispered to him: "this is where I longed to be before I passed from a world full of prejudice, hostility and war. I picked this Living Fresco for my final resting place." I feared the worst. Would Jerry commit suicide just to become a part of this scene in time?

We drove home in silence and I said goodbye to Jerry as he sped away. I knew him well and his sense of pride would never let him purposely take his own life but I had no idea that it really was the last time I would ever see him alive again. I later learned that he had stopped at a local bar to have a few drinks and expound on an era that he felt was still alive and well. He always had a talent for expressing himself and people were drawn to him like the planchette of a Ouija Board mysteriously moves to indicate a spirit's message. After his speech, he encountered a woman with the exact symmetry that set is heart aflame, a Christian Barzoy moment. But, this time, the woman's pulchritude was too much for his overworked imagination. His pulse raced, his heart pounded and he felt dizzy. It was not an enjoyable experience. It was an excruciating tightness in his chest that persisted and it was not one of blissful intoxication. Jerry slumped over in a state of expired ecstasy. He had been destroyed by beauty. Jerry was rushed to the hospital, but he had passed away in the bar. According to witnesses, his last crowd pleasing words were sentimental and explosive, aimed at a time he so recently visited:

"Those people were living in the best era they would ever know, and unknowingly and out of fear, they failed to defend their lifestyle and lost everything to a muddy cow pasture turned into a drab suburban settlement and fitted with jerry rigged malls and square shopping plazas of little value, If only they had known. If only they had been able to preserve the best of the last century. They got along together because of their homogeneity but failed to capitalize on same to save their world."

This was what he believed and I understood, now that I had seen the old building where the people immortalized the year 1967. I needed to go there one more time, if for no other reason than to preserve his memory. Once again, I peered in the window and, once again, I saw Jerry, now sitting by the fireplace with a group of people, still in their 1960's garbs. They were mesmerized by his words. This time, it was my turn to enter the house and I did so after running to a nearby Salvation Army store and donning a mini skirt and floral blouse. Jerry had been a part of my life, a friend I refused to let go. I, too, revered this time frame and I knew it was an era that would probably never be seen again. But it was not just this that made me want to stay here. It was my love for a rare individual and the knowledge that the puzzle was finally complete. By now, Jerry was sitting on the couch, drinking, as usual. I sat next to him and placed my hand in his. He smiled and kissed me on the cheek. It was 1967, now… and always.

June, 2013