You’re 12 years old. It’s your birthday. Write for ten minutes on that memory. GO. Photographers, artists, poets: show us RECKLESS.
My granddad sent a birthday package. Inside was a petrified snail shell, his sergeant stripes and a transistor radio with telescoping antenna, leather case and an earphone.
That’s right kids, one ear-bud!
That little radio was the perfect gift for a red-headed step-child who was eager to be a teen-ager. It gave me control of one thing: I could listen to my station and my music.
I lounged in the backyard that summer, savoring sun and song. I fell in love with Peter, Paul and Mary, The Mamas and The Papas, Simon and Garfunkel, Beatles, Stones. I filled my head with lyrics, curious about their meaning.
I just dropped in to see what condition my condition was in.
Light my fire, light my fire, light my fire…
One pill makes you larger and one pill makes you small …
I decided let my hair grow long listening to Donovan on my transistor.
First there is a mountain, then there is no mountain, then there is…”
I distinctly remember that moment on the backyard swingset; wanting to be groovy and go to San Fransisco wearing flowers in my hair.
That would be far out.