a cat, an iguana, and a white rabbit
saunter into a bar
You never know what we'll churn up in cleaning a stall
a cat, an iguana, and a white rabbit
saunter into a bar
As I’ve previously mentioned, for much of my adult life, I’ve thought of myself as a retired hippie. Or I’ve simply been called one by others. One of millions and, unlike many, one who’s not embarrassed to admit it, that was a time to remember, no matter how short we’ve fallen from its promise and potential, even though I’m not so sure how much I’d want to go skinny-dipping with others these days or even sleep on the ground or a mattress on the floor.
That said, I’ll also admit that much of my first year after graduation from college in the height of the hippie movement was deep misery and loneliness punctuated by playful discoveries. The writing of Richard Brautigan definitely fits in here.
What’s often overlooked in the era is that the central element was the hippie chick. Plus, personally, I was without one, since mine had moved on and left me stranded. (Oh, misery, oh, woe, I am sounding pathetic, but let’s move ahead.) My novel, Hippie Farm, celebrated her in her many guises, even if you can’t even use the term “chick” anymore without being corrected. At the time, though, it was a badge of honor and invitation – one leading, in this case, to that rundown farmhouse in the mountains outside a college town I definitely restructured in terms of fiction.
A second novel, Hippie Love, retold the same plot line from a different perspective, one more of a what-if optimism. I would love to have heard that story retold from their impressions. Ouch? Were they as lost as I was? One I’ve been in contact with all these years has shared her insights, helpfully, and another, reconnecting much later, barely remembered who I was. And here I had thought she might be The One. Oh, my.
In the light of the publication of What’s Left, those two books were then greatly revised and newly released as a single volume, Pit-a-Pat High Jinks. Compressing the two was a major effort, but ultimately satisfying, at least for me. So much happened personally within that short span.
The inspirations cover quite a cross-section of people, with one becoming a United Way executive, another a U.S. Attorney, yet another one an OBGYN physician. Not that you would have guessed it at the time. As for most of the rest, I have no clue. Some were real losers, likely lost to drugs now. Others, tragically damaged. Being hippie wasn’t always a quest for enlightenment, justice, and equality. And when it was, it was countered by powerfully invested self-interests. Sometimes I’m surprised any of us survived, even before we look at the Vietnam veterans on the other side and their continuing traumas. Not all addicts, by the way, were hippies.
Flash ahead, then, and I don’t see youths today finding community anywhere, much less a shared cause. This is supposed to be an improvement?
Contrary to many people who lived through the era, I saw much that happened needs to be remembered and often cherished, even comically. It’s a place where people can begin rebuilding. I’m holding on, then, in my Quaker Meeting as one root to be grafted.
Look closely at the women, especially, and see how much of the legacy continues in spite of everything. (The kids today have it right, their perception of hippie as a girl thing.) Or, as they say. We’ve come a long way, Baby.
Yet that hippie label, I should add, has undergone its own transformation, rarely positive. Alas. Especially for us males.
Most of them, I hope, come across better in the book.
Still, it’s an account of history as we encountered it.
You can find Pit-a-Pat High Jinks in the digital platform of your choice at Smashwords, the Apple Store, Barnes & Noble’s Nook, Scribd, Sony’s Kobo, and other fine ebook retailers. It’s also available in paper and Kindle at Amazon, or you can ask your local library to obtain it.
I sing
on the cake
…
And God made female
cardinals, too
By the standards of many, I’ve been a prolific poet, though if you consider that just one new poem a week would come to more than three thousand now.
Sounds about right, even with the arduous revisions they underwent, pressing the original inspiration into something quite different, always in an “experimental” rather than traditional vein. Add in all the hours of submitting the results to journals and small press openings, and all the rejection slips that followed, it was an obsessive amount of time – I had been warned that even “successful” poets averaged 20 rejections for every published poem. And beyond that, simply preparing a “clean” page for those submissions back in the days of typewriters pressed the limits of patience.
Still, poetry could be done in shorter spurts than fiction in my free days and nights while I was engaged working fulltime in a newsroom. As a minus, it did divert my attention from the local news scene and related gossip, but it did sharpen my editing and writing skills, both of which chafed at the limitations of newspaper style.
Many of my early poems sprang from my journals, something that changed over the years, especially as I got into Deep Image and related techniques. While more than a thousand of my poems were published in journals around the globe, book-length collections remained elusive. Now, however, some are available as ebooks, allowing you a chance to sample my evolution over six decades.
Here’s a lineup:
American Olympus: This longpoem is also a mythopoem set in a single week of camping on the Olympic Peninsula of Washington state. The book came close to being published by a prestigious letterpress imprint but fate intervened, sending me spiraling back eastward. Many other nature and landscape poems reflecting my experiences from one end of the continent to the other and back in my early adult years await full collection. Please stay tuned for future appearances of those works.

Braided Double-Cross: Intense attraction, sexual ecstasy, and long-term dreams ignite this set of contemporary American love sonnets that reflect the conflicting emotions and unspoken expectations that surface in the eruption of breakdown and breakup. The set, my first run of poems composed as a series, explores passions that sugarcoat realities and betrayals. Sometimes something so truly hot leaves a lover branded for life.
Blue Rock: Continuing in the conflicted passions line, these poems reflect attraction, romance, and the aftermath in today’s society. Just groove to their beat.
Trumpet of the Coming Storm: Admittedly polemic, these are brimming with buried anger erupting at last. Sometimes you just can’t ignore politics, even in a historical perspective.
Hamlet, a Village of Gargoyles: This playful investigation of human identities alternates between gossipy and confessional, set within the context of close community. The collection now hits me as somehow prescient, considering that I’m now living in a real village with characters I hadn’t considered. The tone is contemporary with nods to Shakespeare and Chaucer.
Ebook formatting does limit the visual array of what you would otherwise find on a defined page of paper, but it does make my daring work available inexpensively around the world. I can live with that and so can you, especially if you’re reading on a smart phone.
I promise, there will be more.
You can find these in the digital platform of your choice at Smashwords, the Apple Store, Barnes & Noble’s Nook, Scribd, Sony’s Kobo, and other fine ebook retailers. Or you can ask your local library to obtain them.
night
note
knot
When I was starting out in my career and sitting at the edge of the semi-circular copy desk, one broad story I kept seeing in the headlines didn’t reflect what I was finding in daily life. It was the hippie experience, told one the public side as drug busts, antiwar protests, and rock concerts, while the personal side I sensed something much broader and transformative, which was largely ignored.
Tom Wolfe, who had come to prominence as a newspaper columnist, was right in saying that the great hippie-era novel needed to be written, though he was wrong in thinking a single book could cover it.
From my perspective, a traditional facts-and-quotes approach couldn’t touch the emotional reality, pro or con. Interviewing celebrities posing as leaders wouldn’t work, either – they largely betrayed us, maybe like never-a-hippie Trump would do later. Hippie was a grassroots movement on many fronts, many of them outside of the big media headquarters in the biggest cities.
In previous Red Barn posts, I’ve touched on many of the hippie movement’s continuing influences, things our kids and grandkids take for granted, but so much – especially of the broadest nature – remains to be examined and presented. I’ll leave that to someone else who can give it full and fresh attention.
For my part, I leave four novels as foundations for others to build on.
I’ve looked hard for work by others but found little yet faithfully left reviews online where I’ve could. Those works are, alas, slowly vanishing. Yes, we are passing.
I am haunted by a definitely hippie copy editor from the year I interned as what we called the rim, but he was gone when I returned a year later, perhaps after pressing for union organization. A lot had changed in those nine months. I wish I knew more about him, other than the ticket for Woodstock that I couldn’t accept, considering the scheduling and my bicycle as my only transportation.
~*~
The core of my perceptions remains in four novels to my credit.
Daffodil Uprising: I was on campus when the repressive constraints of institutional America blew apart in the late 1960s. Crucially, many of the radical currents emerging on both coasts began connecting in academic nerve centers in the Midwest – places like Daffodil, Indiana, where furious confrontations exposed positions that later generations now take for granted. My novel revisits the upheaval and challenge, both personal and public, triumphant and tragic. As I still humbly proclaim.
Pit-a-Pat High Jinks: The hippie movement that is usually thought of as the Sixties actually appeared most fully during the Nixon administration, 1969-74, and brought changes that younger generations now take for granted. Yes, the ‘70s. In my case, that was Upstate New York where I lived in bohemian circles near the downtown and then on a rundown farm out in the hills where a grubby assembly split the rent and a bit more. My, we were so green and so wild-eyed.
Subway Visions: There were good reasons so many of my freaky housemates and new friends came from the Big Apple. My jaunts to The City, as they called it, provided high-voltage flashes of inspiration that ranged from grubby to psychedelic. It was a whole new world to me, even as a frequent visitor.
What’s Left: So much remained unvoiced and unexamined in the aftermath. I drafted a series of essays that came together as a creative non-fiction volume, but that went nowhere. But then I had the flash to reshape it from the encounters of the hippie protagonist of the previous three books but explored by his curious and snarky daughter. My intention for a big book about the revolution of peace and love turned into one asking what is family, primarily. Hers was quite the colorful circus.
~*~
I still believe there’s much in these that’s “still news” despite the dated surfaces that usually pass for the era.
This year, though, I’m finally saying good-bye to maintaining an effort to engage in an awareness. It’s ultimately in others’ hands.
You can find my novels in the digital platform of your choice at Smashwords, the Apple Store, Barnes & Noble’s Nook, Scribd, Sony’s Kobo, and other fine ebook retailers. They’re also available in paper and Kindle at Amazon, or you can ask your local library to obtain them.
Or maybe that should be, “bloodied.” The experience has been bruising, even without physical violence.
For the record, half of the newspapers where I worked had Republican identities on the editorial page. Of the remainder, one was liberal, one was neutral, and two did not endorse political candidates, period. And in the ‘80s, when I was presenting editors with a range of political columnists, the only ones that sold were conservative.
Early on in my career, I learned that as a true journalist I had to put personal feelings aside and attempt to listen to both sides of an issue. Much later, in Quaker decision-making I saw how that could lead to a third, and much better, solution to a problem before us, not that the general public seems open to that these days.
As for critical neutrality, the critical lesson came the time I was an intern and wore a Nelson Rockefeller button sticker into the newsroom after our paper endorsed him for president. I was told to remove it, and I did. Remember, he was a Republican and this was a Republican newspaper in a town that still had two – the other one was pro-labor and Democratic and had the bigger circulation. And this was during the period presented in the TV series Mad Men. My daughters are still aghast and intrigued by the outrages and great fashion style of that period the series presented. They’re still appalled by the hippie influences that followed, the very ones I found liberating.
As a journalist, the point I learned was that to listen to people, I had to be neutral, all ears. Unlike Fox TV, still far off in the future. It’s still not news in any vein I respect. But I come from a camp that abhors sleeping with your sources, OK?
Apart from that, the reporters and editors I knew weren’t paid enough to identify with the rich? Our incomes were an embarrassment, even to the local Catholic priest the first time I married. As well as my-then wife’s uncle. If we identified with the poor at a gut level, we had good reason. And, across the nation, most of our newsrooms were non-union – trying to organize in the face of national conglomerates was suicidal, since they could outsource at a moment’s notice. Do note the party divide here.
For much of my career, newspapers were incredibly lucrative. Period. Not that pay levels reflected that. But then the business model, sustained by advertising far surpassing the newsstand or subscription price, came crashing down. Somebody has to pay the bills of covering a community. Walmart definitely wasn’t, nor were the other Big Box stores and their colorful inserts didn’t match the rates of those local ads abutting the news.
So, even apart from that, I’m not surprised American newspapers are in crisis. In my four decades as a professional journalist, I saw news coverage under attack – not just from the outside, but more crucially from owners who first bled billions from its renewed growth and vitality and then started giving the product away online without a viable business model in sight. My novel, Hometown News, paid homage to the battle and what could have been, along with journalists’ role in the survival of communities across the continent and democracy itself. In the book, it was like Richard Brautigan and Molly Ivins met Dilbert and Kafka in an industrial city vaguely in the Midwest, even when their names, sex, and races were changed.
My career as a journalist placed me in enough decaying Rust Belt industrial cities to shape one novel of high-level global investor intrigue, though it will likely remain in unpublished draft. It definitely rambles.
What is available for you to read begins as a factual distillation of some of the communities and newsrooms where I labored, but it soon turns surreal in the face of corporate management (make that mismanagement) and global conglomerates that step-by-step decimate the local economy and very existence.
While the initial draft of the book was completed in the mid-80s, revisions took time, and the work failed into fall into a marketable genre. Publishers saw it as too much of a risk and then, as newspapers lost their power and prestige on the public stage, reader interest in what really happens in newspapers dropped sharply. We are in trouble.
Let me emphasize, though, I never saw political arguments sway the development or placement of developing news stories. The decisions were made on other factors, like is it interesting? Does it have impact? Oh, really?
If we true journalists do have a bias, it’s for factual truth. We hate being lied to or being used as unwitting dupes. The consequences to that, unfortunately, have been diluted under the right-wing deluge.
For local perspective, let me recall a candidate for the board of education telling me point blank, for the record, that he wouldn’t be moving away after winning reelection and renewing the contract of a controversial school superintendent – and then he did precisely that, It still leaves a dirty taste in my mouth, may he rot in hell, no matter his professions. We ran his quote, that much was exactly what he said. But he lied, on behalf of a Republican majority on the board. Would that affect how I saw the rest of them? You betcha. And it wasn’t the first time, even back then.
But they would still get a fair hearing, even if I hadn’t moved on.
Something similar went on elsewhere with a maverick sheriff who got elected to Congress as a Democrat while being investigated for Mob connections and a host of corruption charges. Somehow I’m recalling that an undercover agent fell from above the ceiling and onto the restaurant booth table where our suspect was dining – or whatever. We pursued that story and more, not that it didn’t keep him from winning and being reelected. For details, look up Jim Traficant’s wild record.
For that matter, he could have been an inspiration for Trump.
~*~
Leap ahead to the current polarization in the political spectrum. My decision to subtitle the novel “Reports from Trump Country,” seems prescient, given the array of Blue states as metropolitan centers with a sense of vibrancy and a future – largely on the East and West coasts – while the Red states are more rural and stagnant in between.
The hometown in my novel wound up on the rocks and, from what I’ve seen since, that hasn’t changed.
What I am finding disturbing is the rampant spread of patently false stories. It appears that way too many people don’t want to face verifiable facts, like half-empty arenas. As journalists, we knew all too well that some seemingly great stories proved baseless once we made “one phone call to many.” Do note the unsupported delusions being repeated by people with very definite biases.
Maybe I’m shouting in vain to the wind, but I’ll leave that up to you to determine.
You can find Hometown News in the digital platform of your choice at Smashwords, the Apple Store, Barnes & Noble’s Nook, Scribd, Sony’s Kobo, and other fine ebook retailers. It’s also available in paper and Kindle at Amazon, or you can ask your local library to obtain it.
I’ve previously posted on the Quaker tradition of recording memorial minutes for “public Friends,” meaning those whose service extended beyond their local Meeting.
I have even posted some of those as examples.
As I’ve noted, a memorial minute differs from either an obituary or a eulogy. Its intent is to recognize ways the Divine has found service through the individual’s faithfulness.
After the minute is approved by the local Meeting, it is forwarded to the Quarterly Meeting, essentially a district of neighboring Quakers, and once endorsed there, sent on to the Yearly Meeting, where it may be included in a collection of similar minutes.
Here’s the draft for Charlotte Fardelmann, 1928-2023.
~*~
Deeply grounded in her faith of God and angels, Charlotte Fardelmann heeded spiritual nudges that bubbled up within her, an inner life we glimpsed in her warm smile and sparkling eyes, especially when accompanied by lively hand motions as she voiced a holy leading.
Many fondly remember her hospitality at her pink home on Little Harbor in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, the scene of Meeting picnics, multiday silence retreats, or more mundane committee deliberations. From childhood on, she loved the water and wordlessly shared with us her sense of its wonder and renewal.
A quiet, gentle, self-effacing manner accompanied her nurturing presence amidst us, opening her to listen closely and actively in private conversations.
Raised in a family with two brothers in Minneapolis that enjoyed sailing in international waters, Charlotte experienced the privileges and discomforts of wealth. She did, for instance, sail her father’s 32-foot sloop around the Baltic Sea and later around Greece.
In college, Charlotte underwent a religious awakening, along with service in inner city neighborhoods of major cities, to the consternation of her agnostic father. She also took a spring break on Nantucket Island, where she was part of a circle from Wellesley who met a group of men from Yale who had access to a sailboat. With its occupancy limited, they decided to draw straws on who could go, and Charlotte’s led to Dale Fardelmann, who shared a sailing passion.
Charlotte and Dale married and had four children in Hanover, New Hampshire, while he served his medical residency. By the time they moved to Portsmouth, where he established a urology practice, she was worshipping as an Episcopalian, a faith shared with her mother-in-law.
Her family had experienced mental illness and other dark struggles, which she would continue to address.
In the adversity of divorce, she discovered an opportunity to be something more than a devoted mother and a supportive housewife. With her four children raised and headed in separate directions, she found liberation to pursue new interests, including professional photography and writing that led to her published books “Islands Down East: A Visitor’s Guide”; “Illuminations: Holding Our Life Stories Up to the Light”; “Sink Down to the Seed”; “Nudged by the Spirit: Stories of People Responding to the Still, Small Voice, of God”; and “Create in Me a Clean Heart.” Her freelancing appearances included a Boston Globe story that fronted its Sunday travel section, “Mom, You’re Not Hiking That Alone, Are You,” her account of backpacking the New Hampshire Presidential Range of mountains solo.
In the midst of the Vietnam conflict, she searched for a faith community that pursued peace rather than military programs and that functioned free of an implicit patriarchy. Peace and women’s rights mattered deeply to her. Ultimately, that brought her to Dover Friends Meeting.
A decade later, she undertook a nine-month residency at Pendle Hill, a Quaker retreat and studies center near Philadelphia, to deepen her spiritual focus. It was a life-changing experience. After returning to Portsmouth, though she was reluctant to appear as a public speaker, she created a photographic slide show about the center and presented it to Quakers around New England. That step opened other opportunities for her to share her spiritual insights, in addition to classes she taught at Pendle Hill itself. She also established ongoing close relationships of mutual spiritual support, including a prayer partner she spoke monthly for forty years. In her prayers, her style was boldly specific.
She served Dover Friends Meeting as a sensitive presiding clerk, as well as through many other positions, including its longstanding representative to the Ministry and Counsel committee of New England Yearly Meeting. She presented many workshops during its annual sessions over the years.
One of her practices was to set aside a day each week to listen to God. She nurtured a childlike delight in life, likely a response to the dark night journey of the soul she also knew.
A central discipline was journaling, often involving black ink or color sketching rather than words, as well as a midday gathering at Dover where all were free to similarly engage and share with the others, if so moved.
Add to that her delight in music, including participation in a 200-member women’s chorus in Portsmouth, Voices of the Heart.
Frugal and self-effacing, her one indulgence was travel, which included participation in Servas, a program that had her staying in homes around the world in exchange for welcoming those families to her home in Portsmouth. Other travel connections included her experiencing the Eastern Orthodox midnight celebration of Easter in the then Soviet Union, with its congregational exclamations, “He is risen! Truly, He is risen!,” a resonance that moved her deeply. She also went to Central America as a witness for peace during the Iran-Contra conflict, putting herself at physical risk, and to Hiroshima, Japan, among her other appearances on behalf of global peace. Additional trips took her to Friends in Cuba and Kenya, prompting Dover Friends to support a unique AIDS orphan.
She was not immune to tragedy and endured the loss of a beloved grandson and then, in roughly a year-and-a-half span, the deaths of both of her daughters and a cherished son-in-law.
The fortune she inherited came with her father’s instruction, “Keep it in the family,” meaning its principal, placing it in tension with many needs she saw in the world around her. With counsel from several other Friends from similar backgrounds, Charlotte found resolution in redefining family itself and, with the approval of her brothers and children, established the Lyman Fund to assist individuals and groups in following their unique spiritual leadings by helping them overcome financial obstacles in taking their next step. Carrying her maiden name, the fund had granted more than a million dollars to some 800 recipients by the time of her passing and is poised to continue its mission.
From the other room
is she talking to me
the wall
or just herself
over the washing machine?