One of my lingering questions asks, Just where did hippies go in winter?

It’s not that we didn’t stop being bohemians. We just became largely invisible. One or two here, another one or two there.

Oh, I know the reality was that we continued to gather, but it was largely small-scale. A party or meal, a concert or underground movie, yoga class, political protest, dance in a new club somewhere. Where I was, the campus cafe was as good a spot as any.

Warm weather, though, was a different matter. Think Woodstock. The revelation.

Think of the protests heightened by Jackson State and Kent State.

Everyone flooded outdoors in full hippie regalia.

Maybe that’s why my Hippie Love novel has two Summers of Love. And a strange, often dry, spell in-between.

Meet you at the lake? The one with the skinny-dipping?



For the book, click here.


One thought on “TWO SUMMERS OF LOVE

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