Rather than being a retreat to the hills, as I initially saw the period between her future father’s leaving Daffodil after college and his return a few years later, I now see him undergoing a major slow-motion transformation amid frenetic surroundings.

For him and for me, this was a personal High Hippie time, pro and con, no longer a mere interlude to a landing somewhere in the future but a rich mix of its own.

And now, thanks to the daughter, Cassia, I had a better sense of where the larger story was headed.

Before writing and publishing my novel What’s Left, I had depicted his situation in two parallel volumes – Hippie Drum and Hippie Love – one full of near misses when it came to new love, while the other (R-rated) more often connected.

As I returned the drawing board with Cassia standing beside me, I had to admit the dual presentation was a luxury that did nothing to advance the overarching story. The two conflicting books, while beginning and ending at the same points, ultimately confused the reader. Still, it was a valuable experiment for me to file away. Thanks, Cassia.

Reuniting them into one book was a bigger challenge than you’d think. Finding the right tone, verb tense, and balance were only a start. More clearly profiling Kenzie’s country and in-town circles plus his workplace required another big effort.

If I ever do another novel, I don’t want more than four or five characters, if that. (Fat chance.)

~*~

Helpfully, What’s Left now gave me a clearer sense of Cassia’s aunt Nita as a central figure. Only a year older than Cassia’s future father, she now expanded from being his guardian angel, as she was in Daffodil Uprising, into something more of a magnet and Wise Woman who came and went as needed as he underwent crucial encounters, many of them emotionally painful.

~*~

In my revisions to what now stands as Pit-a-Pat High Jinks, I also wanted a better integration into the urban parallel to Kenzie’s life at the time, the subway novel, which would undergo its own thorough reconstruction.

My own job hours at the time would have been too constrained to allow the escapes to the Big Apple that I compress into Kenzie’s timeline. I didn’t even have a two-day weekend – only Sunday off after a late Saturday night, and then Wednesday; four of my days I had to be at the office by 5 or 6:30 in the morning, and it was brutal. In one of my later career positions, however, I did have a floating three-day weekend, which I adapted to Kenzie’s situation. Once every month he could head off somewhere, which soon became jaunts to New York City.

Another thread that I strengthened was his introduction to Tibetan Buddhism and subsequent growth in its practice, giving him a good reason to be heading off to the big city as often as possible.

~*~

In the years after moving from Binghamton, the scene of the action, and off to the ashram and beyond, I lost touch with all but one person from that period. Well, make that two, but he was an older sports editor who had nothing to do with the hippie scene. The other was a former girlfriend where the parting had been mutual.

As for the rest? I wondered where they all went, though I’ve even forgotten most of their real names. Why couldn’t I have been more snide, like calling a character “fat, stinky Frank” or “gaunt Ellen”? Nicknames were only a move in that direction.

As I revised, though, I now had the Internet at my fingertips.

Satellite maps allowed me to see that two – and maybe all three – of my housing sites there had been demolished. (I’m wondering whether I even tried driving past them in my calls on the newspaper editor when I was with the features syndicate. I don’t recall.)

And then a few ghosts from my past reconnected, first from the ashram years – I hadn’t been ostracized after all – and then my former housemate in upstate New York, the one who forms the basis for Drummer in the story.

He event came up with his wife for a visit in Dover. It was about time I met her. She was a much better fit for him that the Latina who commanded his devotion in the book. (I couldn’t invent a character like her out of thin air, by the way. She really was a center of attention in any room we shared.)

Back in the day, he had gloried in a full naturally blonde Afro back in the day, only now it was shaved bald. His smile and intensely blue Nordic eyes were the same, along with his eternally goofy outlook on life, but that chrome dome was disconcerting.

It was time to catch up.

“Did Jnana really have long hair?” my elder stepdaughter asked.

“Oh yes,” came the reply.

Somehow that was enough to get one of my younger generation to relent from their vow to kill me if mine grew out again.

“If you’re writing hippie novels, you might as well look the part,” she conceded. So I got their permission to grow a ponytail. Maybe she was just tired of what was called a combover for the balding.

He also filled me in on some of mutual friends. One was an OB-GYN in inner-city Philadelphia. Another, a federal attorney in upstate New York. Yet another was a functionary for the United Nations. And the biggest lover of the lot had settled down to raise a large family while working as a social services executive. So much for one of my hippie circles.

I even found a girlfriend, via a Chicago Tribune photo and story, who remembered very little of the time and only vaguely pictured me. She had been much more of a presence in my life, even at our distance, than I was in hers, it turned out. I had even hoped she’d be The One.

In fleshing out the characters in my pages, I now had a second Summer of Love to draw on as well as related experiences. I could ask people about their own hippie identities, and many of the thoughts filled earlier posts here at the Red Barn.

While connecting the dots for one figure whose account to me had never neatly added up, I broke out weeping. Signs of adolescent abuse were abundant. I suspect one of her teachers as a villain, but have no proof, of course. Is he even still alive?

As for the others?

Let’s be honest. We freaks weren’t as close as we’d like to think. I hate to consider that the despised fraternity brothers of college may have had the more solid connection.

So what did happen to those who shared the farmhouse? And most of the lovers?

Not that I’m thinking they’d make another novel. Not unless a unique structure surfaced, say something like postcards.