Monday, 16 February 2009

more 1969 videos







This was done by wee ones.



This one done by adults.

Sunday, 15 February 2009

Ugly p8

Still 1969.

Children bounce back.

They always say that, don't they? Those mystical nonexistent 'they'.

I think 'they' never had enough bad happen to them as a child.

I meet so many people in my life, young as I am, that were forever wounded as children.

I can not say I ever became one of them. Sometimes I think it was the will of Jesus or some other cosmic force that kept me safer then I had any right to be.

1969, hippies turned violent. Hippies turned crazy. Charlie Mason arises from the ashes of blissful ignorance that all segments of society have good and evil, every people, everywhere, all through time. The hippies were not immune.

When we got on the bus, the colourful hippie bus made for many a free spirited soul, it was early August. We were traveling cross country.

My mothers and fathers were full of joy and they tried to instill it in me. I was about to see more of the country than I ever had before. I had heard many things of the outside world, outside of the world of San Francisco. Where there were hippies, more hippies, pigs, musical hippies, artist hippiest, political hippies, poet hippies, and straights.

I heard outside to confines of my little world existed more straights and pigs than hippies. I heard mountains and lakes and plains and deserts and forests existed out there. I heard the birth place of my mothers and fathers was somewhere out there, somewhere.

There was a lot out there I had yet to see.

I could not wait.

The trip became long quick.

The bus that looked like a painted school bus on the outside looked much different inside. It had some rows of seats in the front, until you actually got inside you didn't notice the area that was full of couches and rugs and pillows. Or the spiral staircase that lead to the roof. There was also a curtained off small area that had portal potty. It was for emergency only. It filled up quick. For those who could not wait until the scheduled stops or could not pee off the top of the bus. God did give man an unfair advantage in that one.

I didn't go up top unless the bus was stopped. Even if everyone else went up there a lot. It had to smell better than the bus when the potty was full.

As we drove across the country the bus got fuller and fuller as we picked up more people along the way. Some people we dropped off. Not many but I enjoyed the extra room when it happened.

I remember a woman, large with child. She was dropped off in the dessert. Her people lived there for thousands of years. Long before the Spanish came looking for gold. She had told me that. She said it was the Spanish who met her people not the English. I remembered what she taught me when I got to school. In school we did focus on the English meeting the Indians, not too much on anyone else.

When we got to what she called 'the rez', we all waited in the bus as she went into what was really a shack. There were sheep near by in a wooden fenced in pen. A lot of desert all around.It was really hot. I had never been too some place so hot in all my life. I wanted to go play with the sheep. My oldest father took me up top to see them better as we waited. It was less stuffy up top than inside the bus and a bit cooler. He would put his hat on me. I kept taking it off, it made my head hotter. He finally gave up and put a kerchief over my head. It seemed we waited forever.

An old women finally came out. She had some young boys with her. They were older then me, but still boys. She waived for us to come in. The boys came to the door and talked to the people inside and on the roof of the bus.

"Grandma says to come in and to stay here tonight. She will make fry bread and stew for everyone." They smiled as they spoke. I smiled a big smile waved to them. They waved back.

"Can I see your sheep!" I yelled from the top.

"Yeah, I can show you." said the oldest of the boys.

Oldest father and I waited until everyone else was off before coming down. I waived to each one as they stepped off. By this time there were about 15 people. The journey had just really begun.

While the boys took me to see the sheep, with my oldest father following behind, a lot of the women went to help with the cooking.

"Is that your Dad?" asked the younger boy.

"Yeah, one of them." I said, matter a factly.

They both stopped and looked at me. "How many you got?" they asked together.

"I never counted."

They just looked at me strange. I looked back at my oldest father. He was wincing at this point. He would offer no answer other then "It's complicated, kids, at the commune we are a big family, so we all take care of her."

At this moment I realized that this was not normal. I had never thought of it before. Even though other kids I saw with their mother and father didn't seem to have many of them. but in the community everyone did act like all the children were related to them. Whether it be mother, father, aunt or uncle, I had a lot of those, too.

They shook their heads in agreement "Just like all old women on the rez are grandmother." The oldest one said.

Seemed a great example to my oldest father. "Yup, just like that."

The oldest boy looked back at me "So you don't get away with nothing. Poor kid!"

They seemed to understand. Maybe it was not so different after all. I did get away with a lot back then. I realize it now.

The youngest one smiled. "I'm Billy and that's Joseph, what's your name?"

"Emma" I said that one first because it was the oldest father name for me. "Dandelion, Moonbeam, Butterfly, Peace Frog... ummmm."

"Matilda, Alice, Rainbow Walker, Rose and Papillon, not Butterfly honey, don't translate it." My oldest father chimed in when I couldn't remember the rest because I stopped being called those names once the people who called me them moved out.

"Oh yeah, and Ugly, that's what my mother calls me."

"Not Ugly!" Oldest father said sharply. "She gave you her last name on your birth certificate, Miller. Ugly is not on your birth certificate, remember that."

"You're mother calls you Ugly?" Joseph said as he gave the signal to run away from grown-ups.

"Yes, just the one who gave birth to me. She doesn't seem to like me. No-body else calls me that." I said as we were running.

We ended up on the other side of the pen so we could talk without my oldest father hearing.

We were out of breath and laughing.

"Hey, our mother gets drunk, says mean things to us, too. She finally just dumped us here with grandma and went off with some white guy who didn't want 'little injuns making noise' around." Billy said.

"We understand. You got people who care. We got grandma and now aunt Suzie is back. She is real nice. Grandma's real happy she's back."

"She told me her name was Little Feather?"

"She must have given herself an Indian name like in the movies." He laughed. " We were never given names like that. The people who come back from living with hippies will do that. The hippies like that. They gave you all sorts of Indian names. Which name do you like best?" Joey smiled as he asked me.

No-one had asked me that before. "I don't know." And I didn't. I just saw me as me without a name and with many. I was different things to different people. I was different things to myself. Sometimes I felt froggie, sometime I felt like a flower, and only around my mother did I ever feel ugly.

"I answer to all of them."

"Including Ugly." Joseph said looking at the ground.

"I am not!"

"Good." Joseph said with a smile. "Don't ever say that is your name again. Just say the names you want to hear."

"What name do you want to call me?" I asked the boys as I was pet the sheep.

"A little girl, with a butterfly on her face should be called Butterfly. The old ones would have said that when you were born. Butterflies are special." Billy said reflectively.

"Papillon. It means butterfly in french."

"We will call you Butterfly. It will be your name in Indian country. You can say a real Indian gave it to you." They laughed as Joseph said the last bit.

"Because we are real Indians!" Billy said.

We played some more as oldest father watched from the other side of the pen.

All I ever knew of Indians were from Westerns on television and an episode of Star Trek. There were conflicting views of them on television. None matched Suzie Little Feather or her family. I didn't realize they were Indians until they told me so. Maybe they were different ones then the ones on television. I don't recall them being sheepherders in the movies.

We were about worn out from playing when big mother came over and said it was time for supper.

We went towards the house. We washed up outside where the water was in a bucket. The table from the house was set up outside. Some of the people took their food up to the roof of the bus. Us children, we sat at the table with grandmother. This was the first grandmother I ever really saw or talked to. She didn't really talk English all that well and would just say things like "nice girl, good girl" to me with a loving smile.

The food was great. I have decided I love fry-bread. We had it with the thick mutton stew. Suzie had brought bags of food home with her. I thought it was very odd at the time, but Joseph and Billy were very happy to have the food she brought, especially the candy and gum.

After supper I realized their outhouse didn't smell any better than the bus' potty.

After night started falling oldest father brought me and the boys up to the roof of the bus. We sat up and listened to some of my mothers and fathers and friends making music. Oldest father laid me back on him so my eyes rested on the skies and my back on his chest. He covered us in a blanket and make sure the boys were covered, too. Oldest father started talking about the stars. He told us stories about the stars the constellations and we even saw a few shooting stars. Every time one came by he would say "Make a wish, children. The star will carry the wish to the universe. And it just might be granted."

I shut my eyes each time and made my wishes and the last time I shut my eyes, I fell asleep.

Saturday, 14 February 2009

For those who really hate this day:

This is some musical biscuits from years I really hated this day. You know those brake up years or the ones when my lovers were too cheap or selfish to participate.

I love to hate you. The perfect Valentine's Day gift for your self, go a head, dance around the room and sing to it while throwing darts at people you used to date. I mean their photos, of course, you might get in trouble the other way.



Germans are right to the point sometimes. Remember when this was used for volkswagen?

Friday, 13 February 2009

Speical Valantine's brake.

With all the gardening talk last year, and there will be more this year, we should sow the seeds of love. This was really the 80's version of hippie idealizm.



Sometimes we are looking for love or just a kiss.



And for the ones out there still searching for slightly more:

Wednesday, 11 February 2009

videos from 1969

The real or fake moon landing



I didn't realize he did this so early.



Every child's sad song:



No the Beatles:



Sunday, 8 February 2009

Ugly part 7

1969.

The year when everything changed.

A person can say that about ever year of there life.

Every year we grow, we change, those around you change.

I may say 'The year when everything changed' again and again.

Simply, because it is true.

Nothing stays the same.

If I close my eyes for 5 minutes and open them again worlds have been destroyed and new ones have grown. That is how I felt that year. I think I closed my eyes too many times. If I just kept them open maybe it wouldn't happen so often. Maybe I could see what it was that made it all change.

Everyone has to sleep sometime. That's when they get ya.

Who ever the hell 'they' are?

Sometimes I think there are some nasty little demons running the place. Lord help me Jesus, sometimes I do. Jesus, sometimes I think your Daddy just looks away too often. How else to you explain all the bad things that happen.


As a child things change quicker than most other times in your life, you are learning and growing and such a fast rat it seems lifetimes have passed since the same time last year. You have yet to get stuck in any rotten. Days go slow as you try to rush to your future. While those who are there spend their ending time trying to make the days slow as they rush by.

Die young and leave a good looking corpse.

That's what they say. Seemed to come in to practice into the 60's.

Sometimes in the commune people would disappear forever. Too many drugs or getting involved with the wrong people or just getting on the wrong side of the wrong cop or FBI agent. Sometimes I saw them in their finest clothes before the box was closed. They looked very different. Their parents would come in cut their hair, change their clothes, shave their faces, make them look like the children they knew. Some were sent off to the land of the beyond with the way they lived in the end. Some parents didn't claim them. Some of their families wrote them off long time before. Looking back I don't know which I hated more, the ones who could not except their child and respect them in the last moment or those who had their wakes years before and never thought any more of them. To have ones parents hate who you are or rather you were never here.

There I was just this little kid. Able to form sentence to go with my thoughts. There is no better place then with hippies when you are 3 and 4 years old. The colours are brighter, the laughter more often, and you are accepted as a human being with thoughts and ideas. People around me, for the most part, loved and took care of me. They took me with them where they went.

They sat me in front of the television to watch men in space suits walk on the moon. They were ecstatic at the prospect we made it to the moon. My reaction was different. So different. They said they could not believe we made it.

"What is the fuss? " I said. I really didn't understand it.

They tried to explain their hopes and dreams. They tried to explain watching science fiction movies. They tried to explain a lot.

I just replied " We can beam all over the place, why is this a big deal?"

A year before they had pulled some money together for a television and I was glued to it every night. I loved the bright colours.

Oh. you didn't think I had a bedtime, did you?

People didn't get up early there, as a rule, they sure didn't want me to once I could get out of my crib. I stayed up late. The television distracted me enough for them to have , well they didn't really thought I knew what was going on or watching. Let's just say by the time people wanted to have 'the talk' with me I could explain far more to them. I just saw it as almost clinical. Something adults did, like smoking or drinking. I was never allowed to drink or smoke anything I didn't see this as anything different. There were so many fun shows that seemed just geared for kids back then. The television interested me more.

I went to a lot of protest over the years. Love, peace, understanding and end of the war. The last reason to protest. That was the one that got more and more dangerous as time went on. As the police and national guard got more violent so did people in the protest. The last one they took me to, several of my mothers and fathers got hurt. I almost got hit too.

They, the uniformed men, were screaming at my family "What kind of dumb ass brings a kid to some place like this?! That kid could get hurt!"

Before my family could reply they were already being hit with clubs, including the one holding me. I started screaming. But they didn't stop hitting. They just screamed at them more and more as they hit. I was passed from father and mother as they were being hit. The men in the uniforms wanted to take me.

They screamed to each other for someone to get me "We have to save that kid from this freaks!"

My fathers and mother were afraid. They moved quickly. I was even passed to people I did not know.

I was home with in an hour. It was actually a woman who lived down the street that brought me. She hid me under her poncho then pretended she was my mother until we got home, hiding my face every time we passed by anyone in uniform. My heart was racing. I was so afraid. I didn't want to live with those men in uniforms. They would beat me too with the clubs.

No-one was home when we got there. They were still at the protest being hit or dragged or arrested or just blocking the men from getting me.

The women who brought me home grew impatient. There were places to go and people to do. She sat me on the front steps for about an hour.

She told me "Be a good girl and someone would be there soon. Just stay there. O.K."

She told me to hide behind the pillar if someone in a uniform came so they could not see me. Then she left. She waved happily as she walked away trusting in the universe that I would be safe.

Afternoon turned into night. I was scared I was crying. No-one had come. I was hungry. No-one came. I had to go to the bathroom. No=one came. I banged on the door and I screamed and wailed. No-one came. I ran to the back door and banged again. No-one came. I sat on the back step and cried for about 5 minutes.

I went back to the front steps. To the little porch. I curled in a ball, so small, I wet and soiled myself as I cried and cried. I finally fell asleep. Hunger subsided. I was no longer wet. Sleep of a child make the bad go away temporally.

I was woken up by my mother.

"Where the hell were you?!" she screamed as she shook me up.

I looked around it was still dark but light was creeping in. I started crying again. Some of my mothers and fathers were with her, some were not. Later I found out why, they were arrest for obstructing justice. They were obstructing the uniforms from stealing me away was the reality.

I have to say I have never trusted a person in a uniform since that day, especially those in military or police uniforms.

"We saw the chick who brought you here, she said she told you to stay on the front step! Where the hell were you!?" She is still shaking me, but now I am off the ground.

A new mother in the house, a big woman, took me from her with a stern look to my mother.

"Look at you. You are soiled and wet. You are propably hungry and tired. Let's fix that." She said in a calm voice. She started to bring me into the house.

I looked back at my mother and the others, they looked exsausted. "I was right here! I was crying and you didn't come for me!" Defiance, pain was in my voice and heart. They all had abandoned me. She had some nerve to get mad at me.

"We came here." she screamed back. "You weren't here! We searched the whole neighborhood, We searched the city. No-one saw you anywhere but here. Where the hell were you!?"

"Come on, little one" the big mother said "it's all over now, we are all tired and we were all worried. Tempers are high and you need a bath."

She was the one who brought me to the bathroom and cleaned me up, got me clean p.j.s, gave me some bread and milk and put me to bed. She explained to me that they thought the uniformed men had found me and taken me away. They feared they would never see me again.

Looking back, I can only think the one time I left the front steps to bang on the back door, that must have been the time they came looking for me.

I closed my eyes. Love turned to worry. I closed my eyes worry turned to anger.

Big mother put me to bed with her. She hugged me all night. I felt safe again. I felt it was only temporary. I closed my eyes again. Maybe if I don't open them nothing else will change, it will all go back to the way it was before.

A piece of me stopped trusting that day. I piece of me turned hard and cynical in the land of hippie optimism.

Dance to the tune of ecconomic decline

Brake from the 60's and on to the realities of today.

I realized there are no good songs about economic hard times like the ones I grew up with.

Since there are not, I am putting up some of my favourites for your enjoyment.

If we can't spend money lets dance instead.

Hey, you in the corner, stop all the rompty pomty, why know it's bad, but you are causing a baby boom. Look around people, there are pregnant women EVERYWHERE!

Drink and dance instead!

So let's say 'To Hell With Poverty' and get drunk on cheap wine!



This is where the title of the post came from: BAD Bottom Line. Anyone remember the band after the Clash?



Now hopefully we all don't get to this point.


The Smiths, hand it over:



And for those who remember that history repeats it's self. There are so many factors right now that gave birth to the hippies, the punks, and gerneral ANARCHY:

Old school I could not pass up.




Since most of these were from the Brits, I wanted to add an American from the 80's.

The begining, the true gheto, who gave us The Message:

'Don't push me cause I'm close to the edge and I'm trying to keep my head."

Grandmaster Flash, when rap was real.




It's like a jungle sometimes I wonder how I keep from going under.

I am sure a the majority of people in America are saying these words now.

I better stop now and go to sleep.

Thursday, 5 February 2009

Ugly p6

Time passed, a year passed and I became two.

I learned to say all sorts of words in the last year.


Peace.


Love.


Flower Power.

Oh, how my mothers and fathers were proud of my limited but very enlightened vocabulary.

They made me wooden blocks.

Yes, it was a group effort. One or two would cut them, later another on or two would sand them. This was a long process, unfinished blocks were around the house for months. When ever anyone felt artistic they would paint some. Mothers, fathers, guests, me, even my own mother painted one. After they were painted they all got shellacked. It is a good thing I preferred love beads and peace medallions for my teething rings than blocks made of wood lead paint and schaleack.

When they were all finished and dried they were given to me for my second birthday. They all were so happy at what they accomplished. So was I. I loved pretending I made words. Sometimes I guess I did make words. It would really freak them out, especially when my mothers and fathers were high. They looked all funny and believed I was a genesis. I know this because I was told about it every time my mother would see me.

"You were so smart." She would say as if I became less intelligent as I grew older.

I do remember, because of their reaction, one day shortly after my 2nd birthday when my tower of blocks fell. I looked said then I said "Fuck!"

They all stopped and looked at me.

"No!" my mother yelled at me. "We don't talk like that." She yelled sternly and ran out of the room.

The rest were as shocked by her reaction as they did my the word I used.

I didn't understand, they used the word. They would stub their tow "fuck." They would drop a glass "fuck". Different variations of the words describe people they didn't like. I didn't like the blocks falling.

Before I could think anymore about it my mother stuck soap in my mouth. I cried.

"Maybe that will teach you not to use dirty words!"

"Hey!" yelled my oldest father and a few others.

He came up and took it out of my mouth. "Not cool, mom." He handed her the soap.

My big mother stuck some peanut butter in my mouth. "It's o.k., Moonbeam, this will help."

"You want her talkin' that way? Like a dirty truck driver?"

"Freedom of Speech!" one of the others father spoke up.

"Bullshit! How's that for fuckin' freedom of speech." My mother stormed out of the room. Only to return a few seconds later.

"You people have to remember I am her mother! I will not have her grow into a foul mouth low class tramp."

"It would be nice if your Southern Baptist fascist values wouldn't come out to terrorize her into submission. You ran away from that place, if you hated the backward thinking so much, of you couldn't wait until you grew up to find a different life, why are you repeating the same small minded thinking?

It would be nice if you just acted like a mother just half of the time instead of a kid yourself!

The other mothers int he community don't act like this! They are young,too. You are the one who wanted her until she came out and you saw who she really was. I have been waiting for you to open your heart and be a 'mother'.

When? When Bobbie Sue? When will this happen? It crushes her every time you call her Ugly. Every time you reject her. Every time you push her away. When?"

My oldest father was upset. I heard him passionately arguing about human values, the war in Viet Nam, or anything that sparked his interest. He talked that way now.

I was brought to the kitchen with my mother who called me Moonbeam. She made me a peanut butter sandwich to take all the taste of soap out of my mouth. She didn't want me to hear. She looked to the floor a lot. She didn't like what was being said.

When things need to be said, no-one likes hearing them.

I did like hearing them. I did not like being scolded and soap being put in my mouth. Now my mother was being scolded.

This must have been the concept of karma in play.

I really didn't understand the dynamics of the situating until I was much older. The future turned on a dime. She would not try so hard in the future. What was good parenting in her mother's house was bad here. She did not know which way was up. So she let the others do it for her. It was easier than trying and being treated a child for the effort.

She indulged more in drugs and men. She escaped in the place she escaped to. She traded one cage for another. The farm and the strict rules and judgments of her paernts and the church ladies for a world who judged her for not being without rules enough while judging for not being a good mother without rules. She could not figure anyway to please anyone else.So she gave up and pleased herself.

Within weeks of my first curse word, a few of the mothers and fathers left for other places. They said it was time to move on, one was paired two were not. Over time, since my birth, people have come to live in the house as well. Not my original mothers or fathers, they played their parts when I was around.

1968. It was a year of constant change for me.

People moving in, people moving out. And my own mother... not even bothering to call me Ugly anymore. Not bothering at all.

Still I went to the park with my hippie family. Still I saw other children.

I hugged my oldest father when Martin Luther King died.I didn't realize what it meant at the time. All I knew was he was sad. He started talking about the governments involvement in assassinations then. A piece of him died.

After Bobby Kennedy was shot more of him died.

Not just him, but all in the house.

They seemed to have more of an edge, they took me protesting. We protested war a lot, we protested for civil rights. We had people in our house. they were different. they got angry a lot. Not like the passionate talk of my oldest father, but real rage. They frighten me. I would stay hidden in the upstairs closet when they would come by. I would play with my dolls. They were corn dollies. They represented my mothers and fathers the way they used to be. The way we all used to be.

Children should not see the real world too soon.

Wednesday, 4 February 2009

Monday, 2 February 2009

Ugly p5

Welcome to the Summer of Love.


Sounds like the title of a song.


We didn't see that father for a week or so, but he came back. Mothers and fathers they would leave for a week or so and come back. There were plenty of others around, but I noticed, Every time they did not come back for a day, I would wondered if they were gone for ever. I was so happy when they would come back.


I loved the 'Summer of Love'.


It was the year they fixed my face. It was the year music was in my life the most.


It was the year that, other than my mother, I felt the most excepted in my life.


Strangers sung to me. The woman in the park, who had a big laugh. She expected everyone laugh when she did. I remember, I know people say you can't remember that far back, they are wrong, sitting in the park. I was a little sad, the mothers and fathers were more interested in other people than me. She came and sat down next to me and sang:

"Oh sit there, oh count those raindrops

Oh, feel ’em falling down, oh honey all around you.

Honey don’t you know it’s time,I feel it’s time,Somebody told you ‘cause you got to know

That all you ever gonna have to count on

Or gonna wanna lean on

It’s gonna feel just like those raindrops do

When they’re falling down, honey, all around you.

Oh, I know you’re unhappy."

She kiss my forehead and tries to go off with her friends after one of my mothers noticed someone else around me. My mother with red hair seemed really happy to see the woman. She told her she'd seen her in Monterey. They must have been friends. There were a lot of people in Monterey when we went.

Later in my years I realized it was a music festival I had remembered. I didn't know at the time, why all the musicians were on a stage, when I was used of them being on the ground next to me. Though I had seen musicians and others on stage before they came into the crowd afterwards.

Earlier that year, I was about 9 months old, I went to the 'human be-in'. So many people. Other children. Other mothers. Other fathers. People who just talked, people who sang. It seemed to be very important to my mothers and fathers. It was so important my mother reminded me of it later. Maybe my memories are hers put on me. Put into me. Osmosis. Some things stay in you. Even if you are too young for anyone to think you should remember.

I do remember a lot of love. I was bombarded with it. Except for when I wasn't. That sounds silly. But it is true. If you are bombarded with love for more than you are not, you remember it. You remember it later when you the pendulum swings the other way.

For most people the pendulum started swing the other way when you get into your teen years. You start talking about your world and your parents, or whom ever is raising you, realized they haven't a clue who you are. All they know is they want that child back. The one that was so easy to love. Who's problems were not so big. when their presents were everywhere. They always knew were the children where. Now a teen. The children are running away from them faster then they can catch up. Until one day they are gone forever.

It came quicker for me. I was far from my teen age years. But I am getting a head of my self.

My mother rejected me. My mothers loved and accepted me. I did not know my father. My biological one. But every man seemed to watch over me and care for me. I had many.

Sometimes other children the hippies had would look at me funny and say things. That was until their mother's caught them. They would make them come over and play with me. Told them it was not right to reject me because of how I looked. I was special because of how I looked. Our flower family had to watch over the special ones. We were as if we were all part of one family when children were around.

I don't remember my mothers names. My mother didn't seem to care what there names were. The mother who got me in the park was the one who called me Papillion, Butterfly. After my birthmark on my face, both sides, she said reminded her of the wings of a butterfly. "It looks like God gave you face paint." She would talk to me as if it made me special. She and the others often painted things on their face. Flowers. Peace signs. Words. What ever they felt like. She and the other mothers would make daisy chains and place the wreath on my head so I could wear flowers the way they did. She would say "Les papillons love playing around the flowers." And I would laugh.

I remember my mothers made me a hat. It is a white little hat. Like a Gilligan's hat. It was my favorite. My mothers cut out felt animals to decorate the hat. They sewed on a turtle, a frog, a tiger and, of course a butterfly. It was too big and would fall down and cover my eyes until I was three years old.

My mothers made it special because my fathers wanted to take me fishing. They had gotten together one night, smoked pot and were talking about their childhoods. They thought back and as they did they all came up with many stories. One story that ran through them all was going fishing with their fathers. They found this to be a common experience children have with their fathers. Each in turn took me fishing.

Since I had just started to walk they did more catching of me then catching fish. By the second father it was a game I was found of. The third father lost a fish when I ran from him. His long yellow hair came around me as he caught me and we stopped. He laughed for 5 minutes. Mostly at his first anger at loosing the fish and second that he waited 2 seconds before he realized I was more important.

The fourth, the oldest, he had dark long hair with a bushy beard. When I ran. he laughed, but didn't follow. I would run back. He would laugh and scoop me up and kiss my check. I would run again. He laughed again. I ran back again. This went on many times. Until the last. I was running away looking back at him to see if he was looking at me. He wasn't. The wind blew off my hat to the edge if the grass. I went to grab it. I tripped and fell in with the hat. I tried ti get up but the rocks were slippery.

I took in a big gulp of water as I tried to scream.

All of a sudden I was lifted up. I thought I was dead. I started throwing up. He was breathing hard. He was wet, too.

"Emma! You scared the life out of me!"

I started breathing air again and stared throwing up again. I was scared. He never yelled at me before. I thought he hated me for running away like my mother hated me for my face.

I looked up from the ground. I looked at his face. I wanted to see the face that loved me without question.

I saw him crying. For the first time in my life. I saw the strongest of my fathers crying. He was the one everyone looked up to when life was too much to bare. The burdens seemed overwhelming. He sorted it all out. A rock of streaghth everyone turned to. The sound of wisdom and sound judgment. The one who really deiced what had happened to me. He was the one who took me to the doctor. He was the one who put into action to raise the money. He is sitting on the ground crying. He has no strength. He has no answer.

I cry too.

I get up and walk over and hug him.

"Emma, I thought I lost you. That thought was too much to bare."

After the crying was done, I went for my hat. It was floating away.

I cried. I loved that hat. This must ave been what he felt. I was his favourite hat.

That is how I thought back then, I was a little child back then, remember.

"Better the hat than you, little one. Your mothers will make you another. " Still I Cried.

He got the fishing pole and tried fishing it out. He failed many times. Even sank it . Some hippie miracle happened and the hook caught it, He dragged it in. When he was done detangling, so happy he got it back for me, the pole fell in. As we watched it float away. He cried. I thought he was sad because he lost the pole and there would be no more fishing trips.

Then he laughed while cradling me in his arms. "Small price , Emma, small fucking price." He smiled and hugged me for a long time as we watched the sun set. "There is a price for everything, Emma, remember that. And some prices you are more than willing to pay. "

When we got back home oldest father told a story about throwing the pole in the water when he realized I was too young for fishing. As he told it I was just the right age for "follow me, Daddy.", which just became his favourite game.

The other fathers were happy not to try to fish with me along. They agreed wholeheartedly. It was settled, no more fishing trips for now.

The Summer of Love was filled with music and flowers. I drank it all in. I would even say I was drunk on it. My mother calling me Ugly could not stop the love I could feel all around me. I knew I was worth my life. I was worth saving. I was worth crying over. After that I never minded if anyone never again cried over the idea of me leaving. It had happened once. It should in every one's life. But once it happened once, it never has to happen again. Otherwise you are just being greedy. And that is a deadly sin, so the preacher has said in church on Sunday.