Infinite Points of Time:

Morningstar Chronicles, Part I (California)

By Pam Hanna (Read)

Pam welcomes e-mail with comments and feedback.

First memories of "land access to which is denied no one" are as clear and bright as the Morning Star in the morning at Morningstar. Memories radiate from eight points — 8 sideways — an infinity symbol. It was only later that recollections turned hazy with the smoke of countless campfires and dreams and conversations and events. Sandi Stein said it most lyrically in the December MOST.

"My sense of time during those years folds telescopically in and out on itself (I suspect a healthy amount of psychedelics helped achieve this effect), and my memories resemble beads and feathers strung haphazardly together, held in place by relationships and shared interactions with people more than by any sense of sequence or the orderly passage of time. My powers of recall are disheveled, scattered about in disarray, with softened edges and very misty — like the redwood grove in early morning winter."

Exactly so.

My first morning at Morningstar was a cold March Hare of a morning after Larry and Siddhartha and I spent the night in our sleeping bags in the upper house. We came loosely under the auspices of the Diggers in San Francisco. The only Digger I remember from that time was Calvino, who looked like an Italian organ grinder and must have been the original Dirty Olde Man. He told me I didn't have to worry about putting anything in the tin can kitty in the upper house because I was a Digger and Diggers paid their way just by being Diggers. This, even though he knew that all I'd done to be a Digger was to pick up some really hip clothes from the Digger free store in San Francisco and go to the Human Be-In high on Owsley LSD compliments of the Diggers. (Only strings attached to the acid were that you had to drop it at the Be-In.)

That first March morning (So OK, it might have been April) was cheek chapping windy gray weather — and I nearly froze my ass off to prove a point — the point being that people ought to be able to take their clothes off outdoors if they damn well felt like it.

A bead: Once when Larry and I walked into the upper house at night, Al Koewing, (a vet of both MS's), remarked "Well, here's the hard-core Morningstar contingent — what brings you guys to town?" I was immensely flattered to be referred to as "hard-core Morningstar." Probably part of being "hard core" was the fact that we were both arrested for our involvement in the community, but maybe another part was being, as Lou said, "militant nudists." Cindy was even more militant about it than I was. We were both making fashion statements. But we looked so much alike that when I got photographed bareassed in Time Magazine, a lot of people thought it was Cindy because we had the same basic MO — these little chicks with long brown hair, blue eyes, obstinately unclothed at all times — but I had bigger tits and Cindy had a cuter ass, and I always wore a baby on my hip and Cindy wore feathers in her hair. That's how people told us apart. And that's another thing I was flattered by — being mistaken for Cindy. (Not too many people know that Cindy and I had the same last name — READ — not Reed. When I flew home to New York after being arrested, I used Cindy's student ID to get a cheaper rate — already had READ on my luggage — just had to remember to answer to 'Cynthia'.) Lou observed once that familiarity on God's land was the reverse of familiarity in the 9-5 world. If you knew people really well at Morningstar, you knew their last names.

Anyway, we stayed at the upper house for one cold spring weekend and decided we wanted to come back. We had met Lou Gottlieb while sitting around the huge table in the upper house kitchen. We had heard of and heard the Limeliters. I was awed. They were well known at about the same time as the Four Freshmen and the Hi-Lo's and the Kingston Trio. Despite what Calvino had said, I felt that if we moved to Morningstar, we should at least contribute something. I'd been supporting us by art modeling for photographers and artists and by dancing nude on North Beach in San Francisco. (On the marquee at Gigi's, I was billed as "The Naked Eve" and "Caljone Breaker" by turns.) Was also doing short-take appearances in topless nightclubs. That week that we returned to San Francisco to get our stuff, I danced one last time at some obscure bar — but the band was far out. We were all pretty stoned and they played music from around the world — Egyptian flute and drums, Scottish bagpipes, bluegrass, Reggae — and I danced like I'd never danced before. I had a mission. I was going to live at Morningstar and all my earnings from this gig would go into the tin kitty at the upper house. And they did. And that was the last cash I ever contributed to Morningstar. After that things got so fast and loose that there wasn't any tin kitty. There was only Morningstar.

We began staying in the sun room in the lower house. I remember that room because I spent a lot of time in it. I was being eaten alive by poison oak. With calamine lotion all over my body I looked like a leper from Ben Hur. The next three weeks or so were a blur of benedryl and the sun room and trips to Bodega Bay with Phil and Lennie. They were nice enough to take me out for an airing during my turn at the human condition. And Phil was a talented healer — our resident chiropractor.

Meanwhile, Larry was building a house for us — a sleeping platform (at first) anchored on a huge redwood stump in the meadow about 30 yards from the barn. People called it the tree house and the meadowboat. Larry constructed canvas panels for it so that both the sides and the roof could be removed. We put beautiful brass candleholders (found in the uptown trash in New York City) at either end.

A feather: In the photograph that appeared in Time magazine on July 7, 1967, I am standing nude (discreet side shot) in front of the meadowboat with Ramσn and Joanie (fully clothed) and Katy Dog (in all her naked doggie splendor). The picture was taken before Larry carved the prow of the meadowboat so it looked like an ancient (we thought) and ornate ship's prow.

The reaction over time to that picture in Time is amazing. My parents couldn't brag that their daughter was in a national magazine because she was stark raving naked, but other people who knew me recognized me and one wrote and said "I was wondering where you guys were." Others thought I was someone they knew (the PIX was so nebulous — sort of an Everywoman shot), and some, of course, thought it was Cindy. I was even told it appeared in collages across the country and that some people came to MS because of it, and just a few months ago here in Nashville I got to talking with an acquaintance about communes in general and Morningstar in particular. "Oh yeah, Morningstar," this guy said, "I knew a girl named Kathy who ran away to Morningstar and next thing we knew she showed up naked in Time Magazine. Caused quite a scandal." "That was ME!" I fumed, "That was MY bare ass dammit! My Andy Warhol 15 minutes of fame!" When I got arrested for attacking an officer, Lou said "No, no, they shouldn't arrest her — she's got points! She was in Time Magazine!" End of feather.

In those first weeks at Morningstar, I remember Joanie changing into straight-arrow clothes at the lower house and going off to her teaching job in the city. I don't remember what happened to that job, but it seemed to fade away like a soap bubble in the sun, and in any case, we were all glad to have Joanie at Morningstar full time — for a time. She looked like a cross between little Mary Sunshine and the Empress on the Waite deck of the Tarot. Joanie says I made her a white dress with red valentines and green leaves embroidered on it and that she wore it on one magical day. I had forgotten the dress until she mentioned it but know it must have been an attempted copy of the dress of the Empress.

Ramσn now. The first time I saw Ramσn I thought he was from another planet — or a time traveler transported from his perch on top of a Mayan temple to his perch near the chicken coop at Morningstar. Ramσn was — is — a Sun worshiper. A few of us who were early risers would see him sitting lotus on his perch at dawn with his face to the sun OM-ing like crazy. One of my fondest memories is of the mornings in that first summer when we would all gather on the hill between the upper house and Lou's cabin and go through the yoga asanas. Later, when Rena came, she stirred up all the metaphors. She picked up the asanas and ran like a race horse with them, flew with them, swam with them, rippling from one to the next, so those yoga mornings are imprinted in my mind with Rena's image (hey — it's the one on page 97 of the Scrapbook)! We got so used to going without clothes that we wore our nudity like garments. Sun-bronzed bodies harmonized beautifully with earth and sky.

But the local fuzz had a different impression. I remember going to a town citizens' meeting of some kind in Occidental, I think. The meeting was called to address the PROBLEM OF MORNINGSTAR. This one guy got up and said, "You have not seen a truly disgusting sight until you have seen a row of naked men standing on their heads." And he went on about how "our teen-agers" and children are being exposed to this. Then this other suit got up and said, "Might I remind you that the place does not come to them. They come to the place."

The only Morningstar child for a while that Spring was Adam Siddhartha. Time called him a "straw-thatched 17-month-old boy." He was that. I have no memory images of Siddhartha in tears during those days. He was always happy — always climbing around on trees and fences (my little Capricorn) and he got mega feedback from everybody. People talked to him and showed him stuff and tried to make him laugh — which wasn't hard — and Bruce Baillie took pictures of him. His first word was "hot." "Hot," we figured out, meant anything with either kinetic or potential energy. That included fire and sharp knives and windmills and guitars. When he finally started saying "Mama," a young curly-headed man named David (not Pratt) used to come down and sit by the meadowboat and try to get Siddhartha to say "Hot Mama!" David would coach him, "Say hot — hot" and Siddhartha would say "Hot" and clap his little hands and David would say "Now say 'Mama'" and Siddhartha would look around for me and ask him "Mama?" "Just say 'Mama'" "Mama," Siddhartha would say. (He was a very cooperative child.) "Now say "Hot Mama" and Siddhartha would say "Hot hot HOT" and clap his hands. And so it went.

As the weather got warmer, we started a garden by the chicken coop. That soil was miraculous — old chicken shit. Nothing like it. I planted radishes and Swiss chard and turnips and mustard greens, then corn and beans and tomatoes and squash. Everything grew from day to day like those time-exposure nature videos you see on PBS. Later an older dude who always wore clothes and a straw hat came and took over the garden. That was a relief to me because it was huge by then. In 1967 you could buy 100 pounds of good brown rice for $10. Lou often did because nobody else had any money. With the brown rice and cooked greens and baked squash and green salads we fed a lot of people that summer — often more than 200 at a meal. And Cindy seemed to be in charge of the kitchen.

Cindy was maybe the only real Digger on the set at that time — she and Herb — the Herb with the hair like Joanie's who always wore overalls and meditated while he walked. (Once when he was walking in the orchard, I saw a bright aura all around him.) Anyway, Cindy used to hang around wild-eyed radicals in the city like Emmett Grogan, and she believed in true communism. Her personal hero was Gandhi and she had a book about him that she used to carry around with her Bible (which she took to our Bible-reading sessions at Don and Sandy's). She especially liked the picture of Gandhi's possessions when he died, which consisted of his eyeglasses and bowl and chopsticks and a see, hear and speak-no-evil monkey statuette someone dear had given him. So Cindy was a communist and a Digger and a pacifist, but she sure was hell on wheels in the kitchen. She would dig her bare heels into that lower-house floor and fire up the oven and have pots on all four burners going all the time and people would just fall in and take orders from her. But she finally got fed up with the entropy of the place and one famous day in a magnificent rage she broke all the unwashed plates that could be broken and just slung all the plastic shit out the kitchen door.

More beads — more feathers: We all had different belief systems or the lack thereof. I had been brought up by staunch atheists and Larry's parents were into Edgar Cayce and the A.R.E. in Arizona. Lou was fond of quoting Sri Aurobindo and "land access to which is denied no one" was founded on the idea of the ashram in Pondicherry, India. One of Sri Aurobindo's things was that you have to silence your mind so you will be open to the descending force — much superior to the kundalini force which proceeds from the lower chakkras upwards. In the earliest days, Phil and Lennie and Don and Sandy and Ramσn and Joanie said that Lou, trying out his latest theory, asked everyone to kindly refrain from sex for a while to see if the vibration of the land would ascend. Well, that went over like a brass blimp. But when Ramσn brought out a book called The Adventure of Consciousness by someone only named Satprem, I went ballistic. Carried that book around with me like Cindy carried her Ghandi book and her Bible. It said, among other things, that if you let the descending force clear your mind of babble, you will be filled with the understanding of God and all touches will come as Joy Ananda. That's where I got my daughter's name when she was born in Wheeler's Canyon. Joanie had said once that she thought we should name our children after the highest concept we could come up with. So I named her Psyche Joy Ananda — the joy of the soul in Greek, English and Sanskrit (Hindustani?)

One day, to clear his mind of babble and make way for the descending force, Lou vowed silence and hung a sign around his neck that said something like, "This body has been talking entirely too much. It is time for the divine silence." But before long — you guessed it — within barely three hours (if that long) he was glibly holding forth on a number of topics including the prime importance of silencing the mind.

Larry and I took a brief hiatus that summer and hitchhiked to Mount Shasta. Larry wanted to locate the White Brotherhood. We pitched our tent and hung out on the mountain for a week. We never found the White Brotherhood, but there was this old broad who called herself "Mother Mary" who sort of held court on the mountainside, and we sat at her lotus feet a couple of times. But one of my most vivid memories is when we actually climbed the mountain to where the pumice stone was. Larry had Siddhartha in a pack on his back and I was clinging vertically to the side of the mountain. When I looked down on either side of me, there was this alpine abyss and I remember thinking, "What am I doing in this reality?"

Now the beads and feathers come so thick and fast that I can't distinguish the beads from the feathers.

One fine bright day in early summer, Willie B. and Bea arrived with their little one, Andre, and two horses. Andre and Siddhartha were just days apart in age and they became fast friends. Wiillie B. would lead one of the horses around the meadow with two little boys on it — one white and one black — talk about visions of utopia!

Beatrice was into theorizing as much as Lou was, and we had some long and lively discussions about ideas of utopia and child raising, and relationships and how it's not cool to rip off other people's energy and how it IS cool to contribute to the exponential increase of community energy — stuff like that. I got to know Bea better at Wheeler's and then at the new Morningstar. But more people started coming that I never got to know really well, like Jon Jon and Terry and Superman and Kathy and Joe Conti and Chuck, who was dodging the draft. Chuck had short hair when he first came, but he let it grow and never cut it again at either Morningstar, and he changed his name to Winkama.

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Joanie had brought some embroidery thread and burlap sack material from an occupational therapy job she had had. Joanie and Diane and Vivian and Doris and I would sit around in the meadow grass and sew and watch the kids and the horses. Doris would play her guitar ("Keep on truckin' Mama," and "Take your fingers off it, don'tcha dare touch it, none of this belongs to you. I SAID take your fingers off it...etc.") We got into embroidering the burlap with yarn (with a darning needle), then doing more subtle stuff around it with embroidery thread. We made burlap tapestries and clothes that we didn't wear. I remember Joanie putting knots on the OUTSIDE. "I've decided that knots are pretty," she said, "and besides, it's easier to keep track of them this way." What freedom! Inside knots were not mandatory. I was delighted.

Outside people who were friendly to Morningstar (when we were an interesting social experiment to academic types) brought us whatever they thought we could use, including lots of old clothes. Joanie started cutting up the heavier prettier cloth — brocades, wools, corduroys — into big squares. After she sewed a few together, she decided that instead of making a quilt, she'd make a warm skirt for winter. So we started making colorful warm quilt skirts. Joanie's was particularly elegant and she wore it a lot. Later we wore our quilt skirts to court and were photographed by the media in same. I'll never know if it was Joanie who single-handedly started a fashion, but it wasn't long before long quilt skirts became the rage — and I notice that they're still an item.

This whole story, I'm beginning to realize, is leaving the realm of beads and feathers and has become a quilt of relationships and events and ideas in different sizes and shapes — definitely a crazy quilt.

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One day that summer I decided that I needed to be by myself for awhile and left Siddhartha with Hal and Judy Barton (a couple with a school age girl and younger boy who were living in the woods in a trailer down towards the parking lot).

I took my pack and sleeping bag and headed far up the creek and camped for three nights and three days and fasted and read and meditated. On the third day, I met a young boy — the only human I met on this retreat — who had stayed at Morningstar for a while, he said, but it was too crowded and he liked to be alone in the woods. He had an established camp on the fringes of an ancient apple orchard on somebody's land (somebody who didn't visit his old apple orchard).

Tom, the silver-flute player and his dark-haired lady, Diane, were living near the barn and several of us started to spend more time down by the creek. Larry carved an eye-of-Horus-type eye into a rock down there with a hammer and chisel. If I ever get back to Morningstar, I want to see if I can find that rock eye.

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Now the chronology blurs. It was either the rainy season or the sunny season. It was either a time of plenty or a time of hunger. It was either a time of freedom and love and fun or a time of persecution and hassles. But there were far too few sunny naked days before people from town came to stare at us like we were animals in a zoo — or fish in a bowl.

Even though we were the love generation, some people were just naturally monogamous and remained so. Larry and I weren't. By mutual agreement, we had an open marriage before the idea was generally bandied about as a bold new experiment. Morningstar people were refreshingly open about the matter. There were much more judgmental vibes about food on the set in those days than there were about sex.

At one point, Laird and Vivian and Marty and Bernard and Judy and Alison were living in the barn. We would gather for a bonfire by the barn at night. That was the year I had a little corn patch by the Meadowboat. Tom would play his flute and Bernard or Marty would beat on the conga drums and Larry played his guitar. It was a job keeping that axe from warping because we were living out in the open with only a platform and canvas between the guitar and the elements — but Larry still has that old Martin.

For a while Marty and Bernard were conducting a sort of monastery in the barn and made it a hotbed of celibacy. Bernard was into the Tarot and Marty was into Gurdjieff and they both shaved their heads and wore robes and sandals or else just a rope belt and a headband (and nothing else). Later, I guess because one of Gurdjieff's teachings was that if you were a success on the material plane then you would also be a success on the spiritual plane, Marty put on some street clothes and went to San Francisco and started a window-washing business on a shoestring.

Sometime around in here Raymond and his wife Florence and four school-age kids showed up to increase the kid population. They also moved to Wheeler's and then Morningstar, New Mexico.

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On rainy days when it was hard to get a fire started, we would hang out in the barn or at the lower house or at Don and Sandy's. Seems the upper house was being taken over by a faster crowd from the city. Nevada and Crazy Annie and Gypsy and Mystery and Chief and Jason were all there at various times, but people like Jimmy Small and Al and Laura Koewing (brother and sister) and John Butler with his deep kind vibes, were there to temper some of the craziness.

I heard loud noises one night — toward fall I think — because I put on my poncho and went up to the well to see what was going on. There were the Gypsy Jokers with their motorcycles and it looked awfully like they were burning boards, not logs (ohmygod, it was the picnic table!) I said something in an outraged tone to one of them and he went down on one knee and said, "Mam, I wud liketa tell yez somethin'. I wud liketa trow yez inda fire." I backed off and the rest of the jokers laughed like madmen and slapped their knees. We did get to know some of them better later, and there didn't seem to be any real homicide in them — just a profound barbarism. They got off on playing outlaw — that was their thing. They were just in a different movie.

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David and Penny Pratt built a whimsical little treehouse in the orchard. It was multistoried and looked like a Winny the Pooh house or like something out of Tolkein. It blended so well with the trees that you didn't realize you were there until you were right on it. Then there were glints of colored glass and bits of curtain and, yes, beads and feathers. Penny had made beautiful rag rugs for the floors. David covered Lou's cabin and both houses with murals and paintings and collages of birds and angels and morningstars and peyote buttons and faces. David's artistic influence reverberates along the entire Morningstar continuum. His images must be embedded in our tribal consciousness because they keep returning. David had a friend named Bryce who looked a lot like him and who did the most fantastic three-dimensional watercolors I've ever seen.

But there were more musicians than graphic artists around, starting with Lou. It was such a trip to work in the garden and hear strains of Bach coming from Lou's cabin. Larry and Doris and Willie B played guitar.

I remember Swami Bhakti-Vedanta coming to do a kirtan in the orchard and we all went to it and got high on it. I will always remember the Swami's eyes. They were dark and glittering like the eyes of Mother Teresa and like Little Joe Gomez — who was pretty much the resident guru of the New Mexico Morningstar.

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I hadn't been much interested in astrology before Morningstar. It just didn't make any sense to me that it could make any sense (having been brought up in the scientific materialist tradition) but we all got in the habit of knowing each other's astrological signs and to this day I remember Ares Marty and Friar Tuck; Taurus Cindy; Gemini Tom, Bill Wheeler, Vivian, Rena, Joanie and me; Cancer Psyche and Lorene (Larry's sister); Leo Louis Kuntz and Bernard; Virgo Larry and Beatrice and Betty Schwimmer (Shoshanna); Libra Don and Lou and David Pratt and Laura and Jeffrey; Scorpio Ramσn and Nevada; Sagittarius Willie B and Phil B. and Andre; Capricorn, Siddhartha and Sandy and Wayman and David Hill; Aquarius Penny and Diane and Flo; and Pisces Doris and Hal Barton.

One Gemini day, Rena and Joanie and I found ourselves in the sun room in the lower house with a copy of Alice in Wonderland — (Alice, the quintessential Gemini — "For this curious child was very fond of pretending to be two people."). We started to do a dramatic reading of the last chapter of "Through the Looking Glass" where Alice becomes a queen with the Red Queen and the White Queen. Being consummate Geminis, we all had "voices" for different characters. I think I did the Red Queen and Joanie the White Queen and Rena was Alice. When we started reading, there was nobody in the room with us — but as we got more into it and got to the end where we broke into spontaneous song — "Red Queen and White Queen and Alice and all" — people were crowding around the door and applauding. A happening.

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Another magical happening was Lou's quilt. A number of us (we of the female persuasion) were into sewing in one form or another and as I mentioned before, we did have some friendly neighbors — among them a sort of hippie gentleman farmer named Michael Smith and his wife, Joan and their kids. Joan had a treadle sewing machine which is really fun to use after you get the hang of it — it's got its own rhythm. Anyway, we walked to their house on the Forrestville Road from Morningstar and Joan sliced us some of her excellent wheat bread (which we gobbled on the spot; things were a little lean right then at Morningstar). It was the rainy season I remember because we were all wearing clothes. I think the "we" were Doris and Penny and Joanie and Cindy and maybe Kathy and me. Sandy wasn't there that day but she did a square. We embroidered some squares and did appliquι on some and beaded some. I think that — oddly enough — it wasn't a crazy quilt, i.e. the squares were all the same size. Easier and faster to put together. We told stories and harmonized to songs and tried to make Ramσn's mantra ("Only thou oh river of delight, etc") into a round, and we had some more bread and some more tea and sewed.

We worked on the quilt after that first meeting for — I don't know — days, maybe weeks — separately and together, and finally we took it back to the Smith's house to sew it together on the machine and put a backing on it. Then we trudged back in our quilted skirts with the almost-completed quilt. It was all sewn together except for one square — -Sandy's. She stayed up half the night to finish her square by kerosene lantern. It was a cross with a Morningstar in the center.

The next morning we presented the quilt to Lou with some ceremony. It was really a very beautiful and colorful quilt and Lou made a suitably big deal out of it. Later, in a meditative mood, as we were sitting in the sun on his porch space, Lou said, "As the patriarch of Morningstar, one should be allowed to fuck every woman on the place." Pause. Lifted finger. Raised eyebrow. "But if you DON'T — -they will make you a LOVELY quilt."

As Vivian says, "Vintage Lou."

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People brought so many animals to Morningstar — too many. The goats were welcome for their milk (although it is axiomatic that gardening and goating don't mix). An Irish guy with a brogue (forgot his name; he had red hair and freckles) taught me to milk goats and for a while I took over milking Rosie. I could never manage Annabel. Once we came back to the meadowboat and there was Rosie, quietly lying down goat fashion in our house! She really thought that place should be hers — it was up high and shady and quiet — perfect for a goat Queen like Rose.

But we were definitely overducked.

There were several species of duck at Morningstar, brought by some of our more zealous friends. Some clown brought a whole flock of ducks to the meadow and barn area. Big mistake. They imprinted on the meadow or something and we couldn't get them to take up shop at the pond (the one on the way to the orchard). I patiently led/drove them up there and they all went quacking happily into the water and swam around for quite a while, but damned if they didn't all trundle right on back to the barn after their swim. No, no, I told them — ducks LOVE water. WATER! But they were already imprinted, so in addition to dogshit and horseshit, we had DUCKSHIT all over the meadow and barn area to contend with. One little duck, a smaller species, went wild and had babies and we'd see her and babies now and then through the trees.

Finally we were so overducked that I asked one of the guys (can't remember who) if he was into offing one or two of them. We hadn't had any meat or other protein in a long time. He was glad to accommodate me, and we were cooking the duck (it was a particularly ugly one) when Cindy got wind of it and confronted us in the barn. It was a clear case of duck murder and an affront to the high vegetarian vibes and principles of respect for all life at Morningstar. I took the rap and told her that I was the dragon lady here. Cindy was surprised and disappointed in me that I could be a party to such lowlife shit. "But it's duckshit!" I squeaked, knowing all the time that I didn't have a leg to stand on. I was guilty of duckacide.

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Somewhere around that time the hepatitis epidemic hit. I'm trying to remember — it must have been before Laird and Vivian and Marty and Bernard moved into the barn because Marty was living in a tent in the orchard and I was bringing him jugs of water from the creek (he was heavy into purity and wouldn't drink anything that came from a man-made pipe). Quite a few people got it — Marty and Sandy and Don and Zen Jack (who started out sleeping in the closet at the lower house and expanded to a treehouse). People who got hep became very distant and withdrawn until they got over it — and it took a long time to get over it. As a community, we got more hip to the need for cleanliness around food, but as more and more people came, it became harder and harder to keep up even minimum standards, so everybody pretty much had to be responsible for himself/herself.

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Which sort of leads into the downside of Morningstar for me. It can be summarized in one word: hunger. Legal hassles were the other side of the downside, but our court problems had their spiritual upside at times. Hunger had no upside. I can only speak for myself here, but I got terribly hungry for protein, especially when I was pregnant for the second time. In the early days we had the garden and there was always rice or millet or buckwheat groats and sometimes even tahini and soy powder for soy milk, but in the rainy season, times were harder. Some weekenders who came out to see us would often bring us food. I vividly remember a fat and friendly Chicano guy who brought a can of spam to the meadowboat. I had never been a spam fan, but right then I was so hungry that that spam looked good. Cindy and Alan said, "You're not going to eat that, are you?" I waffled around a little but ended up covertly devouring it. I knew I was probably extremely unevolved and was ashamed to be so unspiritual, but I was ravenous for some protein, angry that I felt this way, and upset that I seemed to be the only one who was so hungry. But that's not altogether true, because I remember Marita when she first came — how rosy cheeked and bright eyed she looked, but after a few months she looked haggard and anemic and her periods had stopped (no, she wasn't pregnant). If you look at page 27 in the Scrapbook, you'll see a picture of a smiling Adam Siddhartha — with a distended belly. I didn't realize until much later that this is a sign of protein deficiency. Thankfully Siddhartha doesn't seem to have lost any brain cells because of this — it was nothing like the cases in Africa — but I'm convinced that he was in the first stages of protein starvation. One of the reasons I think so was that when we flew back to New York to spend a month with my parents when Larry was in jail, Siddhartha's bellly shrank back down to normal size and he was gobbling eggs and milk and cheese like crazy.

One of my most shame-faced and miserable memories was of a night around a fire near the well where somebody had some oatmeal with milk. Milk! And they were passing bowls of it around. I was pregnant and holding Siddhartha on my lap and sharing the bowl with him, but I was so hungry that I was gobbling it up faster than he could and he started to cry. That was a terrible moment. I was robbing my own child. I got very depressed and antisocial after that — which compounded the problem. Larry wasn't hungry because he hung out at night with people who had food. Different people had money and food at different times and some people had food all the time, and they usually cooked it at night. But I was too exhausted to hang out at night with anybody. I went to bed practically at sunset.

We first heard about foodstamps from Ramσn in early fall I think, and later that year Nancy (the Nancy who lived at the lower house for awhile with her husband and two school-age kids — the Nancy who used to be a welfare worker and was heavy into the Urantia book) managed to procure foodstamps for the people at Morningstar with kids for one month (after that we were supposed to prove we had our own kitchen). But we still shared the food. The most vivid hunger incident was when I was almost six months pregnant. Joanie and Abe and Siddhartha and I were sitting on Lou's porch (Lou was away somewhere) and someone brought over a steaming bucket of wheat — chickenfeed actually. We had found that cooked chickenfeed has a lot of good grain in it and is an excellent breakfast (but with no milk or honey or anything else, it's extremely boring and you have to chew it for a LONG time to get any nourishment out of it). I took one look at that pot of chickenfeed and burst into tears. There was just nothing in it that my body wanted. Everybody was surprised and concerned — what's the matter, etc. I was ashamed but admitted that I was hungry for some protein of some kind — anything — fish, eggs, meat, milk, especially milk. Joanie and Abe, who had a car, immediately went to Graton and got me a half gallon of milk and a dozen eggs. I was so grateful. Later, Joanie asked me how I was — did I feel better? Infinitely. How many of those eggs did you eat she wondered? "All of them," I mumbled, embarrassed. "Oh, you poor thing!" she said.

Now with the perspective of years, I realize that this was just my experience and may not have been anybody else's. I especially blamed myself when I saw the picture of Siddhartha with his distended stomach — blamed myself for not hanging out at night by as many fires as I needed to get enough protein for both of my children — the born and the unborn. But now I only blame my youth and ignorance and the fact that we were such a new community, just beginning to think tribally and to figure out ways to solve all our problems of hunger and housing and energy. Chuck Herrick and Betty Schwimmer (Shoshanna) had been at Morningstar in the summer talking about ecology. They were full of enthusiasm and ideas about ways to shape and use matter and energy in non-harmful ways — ahimsa. Chuck was talking about solar energy as a viable source for water and house heating NOW. That was the first time I had ever heard the word ecology used in conjunction with our actual immediate lifestyles — (stuff like horseshit water heating outfits like Craftshop Bob's on pg 7 of the Spring MOST). Chuck stayed with us when the powers that be told us we had to have toilets to comply with the "organized camp" regulations. (I remember Grant Ross saying, "Is it our toilets that are on trial here, or is it US?) But anyway, if we had had another year hassle free from cops and injunctions, we would have canned and dried food and had solar heating and greenhouses in place and horseshit waterheaters, etc., because so many of those dreams were realized at Wheeler's even when they were constantly beset by the law themselves.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

After the first 15 arrests in October (among them, Kathy Sweeney, Laird and Vivian, Doris, David and Penny, Don and Sandy, and Rena and Michael Morrissey) Larry figured he'd be in the next bunch and he wanted to get Siddhartha and me out of the way, so he put Siddhartha into his accustomed place in his backpack and we walked to Forrestville to stay for a few days in a small commune of Merry Pranksters — some of Ken Kesey's bus crowd. These were landed gentry hippies staying in a beautiful old Tudor house with outbuildings and several acres of land. A couple of them even had jobs. They were wired in Forrestville and kept up with the latest Beatles and Dylan and Rolling Stones albums. One of the Forrestville people, Larry Gamble, came regularly to Morningstar and hung out at Don and Sandy's to discuss Christianity and the Gospel according to Dylan and the Beatles.

The Forrestville place was beautiful in the fall with a lovely pond a few hundred yards into the woods behind the main house. Larry parked Siddhartha and me for a few days while he went back to Morningstar to show some solidarity with the next arrestees. I read and baked bread and read and sewed and read and took Siddhartha to the pond. One day we had been swimming, and I was just settling down to sew a little when I looked up and there was my two-year-old tot who had not only climbed the big old eucalyptus tree but had casually walked out onto its wide limb over the water and was standing there with a big grin on his face. (This was maybe the first tip-off about his true calling. Now, at 27, he's a geologist by profession and a mountain climber — who has climbed El Capitan twice — by avocation.) I was quietly frantic and struggled to keep my voice level as I tried to talk him down. "Come back down to Mama, Siddhartha." He good-humoredly turned around and WALKED down. I shouldn't have worried.

When nobody was arrested again that fall, I came back to Morningstar.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Except for Forrestville, I hardly left the property in those days, but every time I did, I got into trouble — for not owning any underpants. The night we all went to Synanon to a dance I found a beautiful white lace dress to wear — but it was very short and when I danced......and then there was the time a bunch of us went to a nearby swimming hole and I found a little shift to wear for a bathing suit but (you guessed it) there were no pants to go with it. Some vigilant citizen called the cops, who came out and reluctantly told us not to go away mad — just go away. Turned out to be one of the deputies who liked us and used to hang out at Morningstar on his days off. I wasn't trying to be lewd. It was just that finding a pair of underpants to wear was low on my list of priorities in those days. Morningstar faith.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The fall arrests brought out the spiritual side in us, which was definitely an upside. Before that, I had taken my atheism pretty much on faith. The descending force of Sri Aurobindo and psychedelics had made me aware of forces in the universe that I'd not even considered before, but here were Don and Sandy talking about a personal God. A mere force, they said, was LESS than a personal God of Love. Some of us took to gathering at their still-unfinished house to read and discuss scripture. Cindy liked to say she was hanging out at the temple. We decided that Jesus was the original hippie. As Kris Kristopherson said, "Long hair, beard and sandals and a funky bunch of friends; reckon we'd just nail him up if he come down again, BECAUSE (chorus) Everybody's gotta have somebody to look down on, who they can feel better than at any time they please. Someone doin' somethin' dirty decent folks can frown on; if you can't find nobody else, then help yourself to ME." That pretty much embodied our evolving philosophy. Everybody and his cousins were helping themselves to us. The Press Democrat was getting all their hot copy from us for starters. Jesus' parables were all-inclusive — they let everybody in and the tares were allowed to grow with the wheat just as we let everybody in including a fair number of flaming assholes. But the point was that we all do time at being assholes here and there and now and then (although some of us are more flaming about it than others). But it's a case of US, not THEM. And maybe Jesus died for our freedom — not our sins.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I remember when someone brought a drug called MDA to Morningstar and we all took it and ended up in these hugging parties. You'd see a whole bunch of people near the well or down by the barn, all in a tight cluster like bees — with their arms around each other. I did my time in some of those clusters too and remember the feeling of oneness with all life (even the ducks)...and the love.

It was during one of these MDA cluster hugs that Sandy (I think) came up with this quote from Revelations, "And he shall rule them with a rod of iron; as the vessels of a potter shall they be broken to shivers, even as I received of my father. And I will give him the Morning Star. He that hath an ear, let him hear what the Spirit saith unto the churches." (Rev. 2:27-29). That one really got to Mystery where he lived. The man went through a transformation — for a few days anyway.

But MDA was extremely hard on the bod — at least mine. I could never physically handle psychedelics very well. They always made me extremely weak and hungry. Best trip was the one without dues — the afternoon someone (Marty I think) brought some hash brownies to the meadowboat. Ouspensky said "eternity is the infinite existence of every point in time." Well, this daydream really does last an eternity. Beautiful. Somehow, that afternoon — with the breezes blowing through our meadowboat and butterflies fluttering around the corn patch and Tom's silver flute music coming from the direction of the barn — lasts forever in my memory and must still be happening in some corner of the cosmos.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Christmas 1967 was a bright spot in the storm before the big arrests started. The persimmon trees in the meadow were heavy with fruit — a gift for the holiday. Joanie and Nancy knew a bunch of advent traditions. They put them all together and Penny and Marita made advent wreaths out of evergreens. Joanie stayed up all night in the upper house making hot cross buns and we got up before dawn on the first day of advent (or maybe it was Christmas morning) and we lit candles and walked all over Morningstar — into the two houses and to Don and Sandy's and all through the orchard and down to the barn and to all the A-frames and tents and all the way down to the parking lot camps — with these itchy wreaths on our heads and lighted candles that kept going out and hot cross buns (Joanie had it figured out so there was one for everybody) singing Adeste Fidelis and the First Noel and Joy to the World, and wearing whatever fanciful Christmas outfits we could put together. Don't know how many traditions we combined in this but figure we got the whole winter solstice pretty well sewn up. It must have been Christmas morning because I remember that there was a Christmas tree in the upper house with presents and some people walked around all day like the ghosts of Christmas Past wearing those wreaths and playing various musical instruments and somebody brought in an autoharp and went striding all over the orchard playing it and it was very high and all the kids were running around trailing Christmas tree decorations that somebody had brought from the outside world and tying each other up with strings of popcorn. That was fun. But it was the calm before the storm, because 21 people, including Larry, were arrested a few days later.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

This time they got Larry Gamble from Forrestville and Kathy, David, Kyle, Grant Ross, John Butler, Cindy, Doris, Al Koewing, pregnant Pat DeVita, Marita, Tomαs and Don and Sandy.

The modus operandi of the powers that be were to arrest you, let you out on your own recognizance with strict instructions to leave the commune, then rearrest you for violating your probation if you didn't leave. So we all knew they'd be back.

After he got out of jail that first time, Larry started building another little house concealed back in the woods in hopes that the cops wouldn't find it. But it wasn't finished yet, and he was still sleeping in the Meadowboat with me (Siddhartha and I could still sleep there because we hadn't been arrested).

In late February, when I was six months pregnant with Psyche, my parents sent me a plane ticket to New York, and I was going to fly back for a visit. I knew Larry shouldn't sleep with me in the meadowboat that night before my trip and I begged him not to. He could sleep at the unfinished house. But he wouldn't. I woke up around midnight covered with hives — the only time this has ever happened to me before or since — and like Calpernia I begged him again, only I wanted him to LEAVE. He refused again and we went back to sleep. According to the news article, it was 3:30 a.m. when the cops showed up to arrest Larry. Oh my prophetic soul! I was frantic. "I told you, Larry" I stage whispered. Somehow I had blotted from my conscious mind the realization that he obviously WANTED to get arrested for solidarity's sake. He just hadn't counted on me freaking out so bad and going berserk when they handcuffed him. Something snapped in my cortical synapses. Siddhartha was sitting there waked up and dazed with his big blue eyes wide in the flashlight light. I couldn't bear it. To this day, I feel my blood pressure rise when I see ANYBODY being handcuffed, even on TV — even supposed badasses. There were two policemen, and I was hopping around between them and Larry, pregnant and naked as a jaybird. I must have looked pretty funny, but the humor escaped me then. I remember that I was trying hard to kick one of them in the balls, but my feet were bare and he was much too tall to knee. I couldn't get a bead on either of them, and then — horrors — they handcuffed ME and the die was cast. Once they handcuff you to restrain you, they have to arrest you.

Anyway, with my hands behind my back in cuffs, I couldn't put anything on, so the cop had to reach into the meadowboat and get my purple velvet dress (that I was going to wear to New York) and put it over my head. One of them carried Siddhartha while the other one herded us up to the police car. Of course the noise had awakened Lou. He came out of his cabin and I remember him saying, "I BEG you, don't take her or the baby." And one of the cops (the nice one — they were doing the good cop, bad cop routine even then) said "Lou, I wouldn't have taken her for the WORLD, but she left us no choice. She ATTACKED us and we had to restrain her. That's obstructing an officer in the performance of his duty."

The ride to Santa Rosa was a nightmare. With handcuffs on I couldn't comfort my little boy. He hadn't cried the whole time — just looked at the scene in wide-eyed bewilderment. But in the car ride he could see how upset his mama was and he finally started to fret. The booking scene at the jail is a blur of bright fluorescent lights and steel bars and cold sterile deadly cleanliness. This was truly the most traumatic experience of my life so far ( I was 25) and it was a long time before I could even talk about it. Really think, though, that I would have been a much better sport if I hadn't been so pregnant.

Of course I didn't sleep for the rest of the night, and in the morning I remember they served corn beef gravy on toast for breakfast and one of the women said, "Oh no, shit on a shingle again!" and I wanted desperately to NOT eat in protest — but I was so hungry (as always) that I not only ate mine but somebody else's who didn't want hers — and of course felt very ashamed.

Lou was right there to bail me out the next morning. "OK, let's go spring Pam," he was said to have said. So there was Lou and Rena and — John Butler I think (wait a minute — wasn't he in jail?). At any rate, I was so glad to see them. I was released on OR and we immediately drove over to the Juvenile Detention Center to get Adam Sid, No. #1 Hippie Kid (as Lou used to call him). He was all bathed and dressed in a little shirt and disposable diaper (I never used them — in fact we didn't use diapers during the day at Morningstar. We let the little ones run around bareassed and only put cloth diapers on them at night.)

Siddhartha was fine. He had apparently charmed the pants off the caretakers there with his giggle and his big blue eyes and dandelion thatch of hair. We couldn't get Larry out of course. He had violated his probation. I was numb by that time and don't clearly remember the sequence of events — just that Siddhartha and I were driven to San Francisco, probably by Lou, and put on an airplane that day. We stayed with my parents in New York for about a month I think. I wrote to Larry every day and for the return address on some of his letters he wrote "Durance Vile."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Larry and David Pratt and Larry Gamble and Don formed quite a bond during that month in jail. Dylan's John Wesley Harding came out at that time, and a number of its songs seemed pertinent to our situation, especially "All Along the Watchtower," "There must be some way outta here, said the joker to the thief. There is so much confusion, I can't get no relief."

When I came back to Morningstar, it was with a new resolve. I would insist on a trial. I had been wronged, and I must show some solidarity with all the people who had gone to jail for THE CAUSE. I went back to court and demanded a jury trial and insisted on representing myself. (Crazy as a bat. It's true what they say — be your your own lawyer and get a fool for a client.) It's too bad that Lou was out of town at the time because he probably would have dissuaded me from going to court in the first place. But I was Portia discoursing on the quality of mercy. I was right and they were wrong. What I didn't take into account was that I had been charged with assaulting an officer and obstructing an arrest, and I HAD done that. The fact that the cop only had a little scratch on his cheek and I had a black eye didn't cut any ice. I remember choosing the jury and the prosecutor must have been having a slow week because he asked questions that sounded like something a reporter from The Enquirer would ask. Wanted to know whether my husband was caressing me sexually at the time of the arrest. "What the fuck has THAT got to do with the price of beans?" I squawked. Lost points for that. I had said an unladylike word. For some obscure reason I don't remember (probably trying to build a case for false arrest) I called Joanie to the stand and she testified that I had indeed been traumatized. It was very moving, but it didn't help my case. When I saw the court document that said STATE OF CALIFORNIA VS. PAMELA JANE READ, that REALLY fed my martyr complex. The whole damn STATE was against me! So since I had blown Mother Mary, I was now Joan of Arc.

The jury found me guilty even though one woman jury member was crying after my "we-just-want-to-be-left-alone-to-live-our-beautiful-lives speech. Bill Wheeler told Lou that I was "eloquent" in my own defense. So that and 25 cents would have gotten us a cup of coffee (hey, it was 1968)! The judge refused to sentence me until after my baby was born. But I never went back to be sentenced and they never pursued me. (Not surprising, since they had never wanted to see me back there in the first place.) In any case, the risk of having one's children taken away is a biggie. Too big to ignore. When Lou came back, we were already moved to Bill Wheeler's land.

That day of the trial, we drove to Wheeler's afterwards — don't remember whose car we were in — but it was cold and windy with brief blazes of sunshine. A strobe. Sunlight through tears. Beatrice met us at the gate. She took off her sweatshirt (the one she wore all the time; it was a faded ash rose color) — and put it on me. "Here, little mother" she said. "Be warm." Such an act of love that was.

We moved off land-access-to-which-is-denied-no-one in March. Charlie was already at Wheeler's in the knoll area growing marijuana and pissing on it every morning. I remember Carol, (who had Morningstar, the first baby born at Wheeler's) complaining about it. "You're going to ruin those plants with nitrates and salt," she'd tell him, and he'd agree, but every morning he'd get up and piss on the pot plants again.

We stayed on the ridge long enough to dig that we couldn't stay on the ridge. I was too freaked out and pregnant and more than anything I wanted peace and quiet. So we headed down to the East Canyon. I only recall the very earliest days on the ridge with Charlie and Bea and Willie B. and Bill and Gay Wheeler and Carol and little Morningstar. At one point, we stayed briefly with Bill and Gay in the open air wood house they had built. That was a mending time. We drank goat's milk and ate wild honey on brown rice. We met Gay's brother, John Holt, who was an educator and has written several books — among them "How Children Learn." I think I only met him for one afternoon, but he made a deep impression on both Larry and me. He was so focused during the entire afternoon on watching our Number One Hippie Kid.

I had made Siddhartha a fancy little towel poncho and he looked like a cherub princeling in it. I remember his delighted giggle that day as he played with John Holt. Larry also had a towel poncho along with a cap I had embroidered with Greek keys. The effect of the outfit, especially when he was holding his guitar with its braided strap, was of some kind of mythical medieval king or troubadour who had just stepped out of a Tarot deck.

The most vivid memory I have of Bill Wheeler was of one misty morning on the ridge. He was doing something — milking a goat, fixing a car — I don't remember. But when he saw me, he looked up at the expanse of sky, stretched out his arms and as though continuing an ongoing conversation, said, "But Pam, what does it all MEAN?"

It seemed that everywhere we went, we were among the first people to be there and when it got too populated, we moved on, so we never got into the community at Wheeler's, but we were the first people to move to the canyon. Again, it was March — the mad month. Also the month for Spring planting and new beginnings.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Larry scouted the East Canyon and said we could live there. There was an unpolluted creek and grassy meadows with flowers and a place where we could divert the spring runoff for a garden. We were caught up in the antinomies — a strong desire for community and an equally strong desire for wildness and solitude. The wild side won out — mainly because I was still so freaked about the trial and the possibility that the State of California would try to take my children away from me. I had a profound distrust of straight people and only wanted to associate with tribal hippies.

Larry took the tent he had made along with tools and food supplies down to our first campsite, then came back for Siddhartha and me. I carried a pack with our clothes and books and Larry carried Siddhartha on his back (because the descent was steep) with food supplies. We had rice from somewhere and tamari and soy beans for protein and some oil and we figured we'd grow our green things and find wild edible plants.

We set the tent up on a kind of shelf beside a tributary. That first night I had our pot of brown rice cooking and had time to do some exploring before sunset. I noticed some tall feathery plants growing by the creek, lighter green than carrot tops and more lush. I tasted one. It was sweet and carroty. Nice. So I thought I'd put them in a stir fry with some onions to go with our rice. Since we didn't know what they were, I decided not to give Siddhartha any of the stir-fry (because as Lou says the Talmud says, "Never overlook the possibility of catastrophe").

We were sitting there drinking our fennel seed and mint tea (both fennel and mint were growing in abundance in the canyon) and watching the sunset over the water, when Larry turned to me, swaying, his eyes crossing a little. "Do you think we're going to die?" he said in a distant abstracted voice that only remembered alarm. I was swaying more than a little myself. For some reason, this struck me as hysterically funny. "No," I cackled, "Hell, that's the whole point — -we're NOT going to die. Cackle cackle." (I only remember SAYING this — can't get into that head space enough to remember what exactly I meant.)

Well, we found out later that the stuff was fool's parsley or hemlock — supposedly a poison. I don't see how it could have been as strong as the stuff Socrates checked out on because it didn't even make us sick. Just high. When Larry told everybody on the ridge about it, Raymond's teen-age kids came down and chomped away at the stuff like beavers despite our warnings — but they didn't really get off on it. Maybe we did because it was cooked; I don't know. But the experiment wasn't repeated.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Gradually we settled into our new camp. I planted radishes and Swiss chard and peas and onions, later squash and beans.

After a couple or three weeks, Laird and Vivian came down and asked us if we minded if they made camp in the canyon. By that time, I was chilled out a little from the bust and welcomed another couple, especially since I was about to give birth and the thought of having another woman around was comforting. Their camp was upstream from us and there were magical little creek pools up there that were deep enough to swim in. Sometimes I borrowed their inner tube and floated down the long afternoons. Chilling out was a long process. I had been used to working at Morningstar — not hard but helping with the garden and helping Cindy in the kitchen. Now all I had to do was cook our rice and take care of the garden and relax. It took me quite a while to learn to do that. I remember Vivian saying, "Just make yourself happy. Take it easy." Permission. So I did.

I got into sitting on big flat rocks in the middle of the brook and riverbeach-combing for especially pretty pebbles. I would clean them off and arrange them by the various miniature waterfalls all up and down the creek. There was lots of quartz and chalcedony and puddingstone, and a fair amount of slate. Occasionally a piece of ancient and polished coke or beer or medicine bottle would surface and I'd add that to the collection. Once when Hoffy came down to visit us (we had known Hoffy in New Orleans and now he was living on the ridge) he looked at the creek and said, "Jesus Christ it looks like a bunch of ELVES live here!"

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The days were getting warmer, and on one of them, we happened to look up and there was Jean, Nevada's girlfriend, sliding down the hill. (I told you it was steep.) She brought some coffee with her, the first we had had in more than a month. What a buzz. She and Nevada wanted to move down. Jean was fine, but I shuddered at the thought of Nevada in the CANYON! Nevada was sweet when he was sober, but a drunk always got his Irish up and he would inevitably go into flashbacks about Viet Nam and start raising hell. But Jean assured us that Nevada was not going to drink in the canyon. This was going to be therapy. (Well, the bottom line was that this was open land, so even though it was gracious of them to ask us first, we couldn't and wouldn't and didn't ask them not to come. Hard core Morningstar.)

So Nevada and Jean set up camp about 100 yards downstream from us, and it was fine for a long time. They even took Siddhartha for four days just to have a little kid around. They loved taking care of him and he loved all the extra attention. Nevada was actually sober for many days, and when he did finally get roaring drunk again after a trip to town, it wasn't Viet Nam that got him into a rage but Larry. We could hear him from our camp yelling, "She's PREGNANT, dammit!" He was uptight that Larry didn't provide for his family. Nevada at least got foodstamps (which Larry was against in principle; I forget what the principle was exactly).

Anyway, we decided to move our camp further downstream where there were eucalyptus trees and a big river beach. That camp was the setting for the Jack Mormon story in last December's MOST. Larry found a huge redwood burl and began sanding it down and polishing it. It was a deep warm redwood color and it fairly glowed — a piece of found art that Larry worked on — sanding and polishing — for a long time. And then it was stolen. It was very heavy, so we could only guess that somebody with a vehicle came from Ryan's property across the creek and carried it away.

We dug latrine trenches and in an old seasoned one I planted some Marihootchee. This was supposed to be a no-no — for Bill's sake we had agreed not to grow any grass — but Spring had sprung, and personally it's a tropism with me — the light principle returns and Little Pammie Potseed starts looking for likely places to grow boo. One of the signs of Spring. So we grew some boss shit in our shit. (It hadn't flowered yet when we left for New Mexico, so we just took a few leaves and left the rest to flower. We heard afterwards that Hoffy made DAILY trips down the hill, harvesting leaves and leaving the flowers to flower. (We never found out how much the flowers flowered.)

Some other people moved down to the canyon. I can't remember any of their names now, but one was an ex-priest who was living with his girlfriend and they had a young man with them who had just come back from Viet Nam freaked out. He had been living on a survival level for a long time and couldn't stop watching his back and he couldn't sleep. Gradually he chilled out, but he kept saying he thought he might go back because basic survival gave him a rush that he missed. He had found himself in Viet Nam.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I was lumbering around now, heavy with child as the summer solstice approached, and on Joanie's birthday, June 17, I went into labor. Somebody went up to the ridge and spread the news and Beatrice and Joanie and Lou and Rena came down to see the birth. But it turned out to be a false labor. I felt like an opera star who lost her voice just as she was about to do her grand aria. Ten days later, I started laboring for real and Psyche Joy Ananda was born under a starry sky. We think it was after midnight on June 28 (we were clockless). She had bright coppery red hair and hazel eyes, and she nursed immediately. She was sweet and lovely from the very first. Larry made her a beautiful redwood burl cradle and for awhile all was well. I seemed to have gallons of milk for her and she gained weight steadily.

Larry's brother Fred came to the canyon and set up a parachute tent at our old campsite. It was spacious and dazzling white and the effect when you sat inside it was of being inside a cloud. Nursed Psyche inside that tent day after day, and I got very spaced out. Turns out I was sick. Had an infection — childbed fever — that kept getting worse. Larry went up to the ridge and brought Bill and Gay down with their four-wheel drive on Ryan's road across the creek and transported Psyche and me to a doctor who gave me antibiotics. He said I was run down and anemic but the baby was fine. Those soybeans, although a good source of protein, weren't very digestible and I couldn't handle them during that last month of pregnancy. Bill and Gay were wonderful to us. They must have paid the doctor because I know we didn't have any money.

A lot about that time I don't remember, but think it was August when we got a letter from Cindy in New Mexico. She had sent it to us in care of Bill and Gay. A Morningstar contingent had split off to New Mexico to try and start a commune there. "Why don't you guys come out here," Cindy's letter said. "We need you." Well, if that wasn't a clarion call, what was?

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