![]() “Harmony and understanding/ Sympathy and trust abounding.” I looked back and forth between my father and the television. I wanted to go to San Francisco! I wanted to be a part of the new revolution! Peace and Love. But there were bigger issues on his mind than the Disneyland of clown clothes and flowers or the young man on the screen, whipping his hair out of his eyes, explaining into the camera that he was in rebellion against “an uptight society, man”. ![]() Like some of the young men on the television, he was bare chested, enjoying the meandering breezes of the warm day. It was no more to him than a list of stock market numbers accented by up and down arrows. My father, in his late thirties, a hardworking and even-keeled man with four children, seemed unaffected by the report. ![]() A mournful but magnetic tune, it was full of longing and hope, declaring, “Summertime will be a love-in there.” ![]() Uncle Walty, as I would later hear the somber voiced news caster nicknamed, was reporting that thousands of mostly white, mostly middle class young people were gathering in the streets of San Francisco for what they billed as “The Summer of Love.” The Siren’s song, “If you’re going to San Francisco/ Be sure to wear some flowers in your hair,” had been playing on the radio for weeks. My father and I were sitting on the screen porch watching the CBS evening news on a flickering black and white television. ![]()
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