Just south of Kane and a little west of Johnsonburg Pa., there was a farm nestled in the foothills of the Allegheny National Forest. The farm had existed in some form or other long before the Civil War and had served to hide runaway slaves and those seeking to escape the tyranny of the southern plantation owners. Protected from the east by cliffs and mountains, that literally bordered the large creek that ran across the back of the farmland. The front of the farm was cleared so that large expanses of land and a small dirt road led the way to the farmhouse, making it easy to see anyone approaching from the front. And to the left of the house stood a barn, open on both ends, and from the backside of this barn ran a hidden trail that led into 512,998 acres or 801.6 square miles of wilderness known as the Allegheny National Forest. It is easy to imagine that anyone could escape forever in to that vastness, even a modern day fugitive. Of course, it helps to know where you are going, and what to be aware of and how to survive; it would also be easy to imagine that perhaps many a runaway slave became a great dinner for a bear or mountain lion. I did not intend to become dinner for anyone and especially did want to test my survival skills. After all, I had only come here to leave West Virginia, my original destination being a warm Virginia Beach sand dune and a bottle of tequila, a ripe lime, some salt and a southern belle that the closest she had ever come to a cow was at the local hamburger stand. Actually, the Southern belle did not really factor in; it just sounded good writing it here. After all Emily was still living in my heart. But after living on Blueberry wine and hard cider for 18 months and bathing in a running stream, I must say the thought of tequila and warmth sounded very good.
But here I was on a farm that was probably 300 years old by 1968 had been a refuge for so many seeking survival, seeking freedom, seeking peace and now welcoming me into the folds of sanity in a world rapidly losing its mind.( * see footnotes)
The farm was now home to an artist commune composed of writers, musicians, painters and all manner of less than mainstream non-conformist pacifist. The fact is it had existed back into the early 1950’s and had a few inhabitants that had been there since its inception as a commune for the incredibly talented. Legend has it that Allen Ginsberg and Jack Kerouac had actually stayed there. Kerouac just before “On the Road” was published in 1951. Imagine what a heady experience that was for a young man on the road and out to change the world and become the next, no not the next Jack Kerouac, but more, oh so much more. He had shown the way I was going to show new roads and bring the world to a new place. Yes, I was.
My days on this farm would be short, but colored beautifully and forever by the changing leaves and the mountains a blaze with the kaleidoscope of fall. And a woman named Alice an intensely gifted artist who made the mountains come alive on canvas and a talking Parrot that knew only the words her ex husband had taught it to say just before he left her, “ Fuck you Alice”…
(To Be Continued)
**( In 968 Acting on optimistic reports he was given on November 13, U.S. President Lyndon B. Johnson tells his nation that, while much remained to be done, “We are inflicting greater losses than we’re taking…We are making progress (2 months later the Tet Offensive makes him regret his words).”
Vietnam War: U.S. Secretary of Defense Robert McNamara announces his resignation to become president of the World Bank. This action is due to U.S. President Lyndon B. Johnson‘s outright rejection of McNamara’s early November recommendations to freeze troop levels, stop bombing North Vietnam and hand over ground fighting to South Vietnam.)
Dan! You made me snort my eggs up the back of my throat, toward my nose. No fair, but then I know now in furute not to be eating or drinking anything whence I begin to read your stories. Love to Jennifer.