well worn jeans
Do you remember Landlubber jeans? Where I was in hippie geography Landlubber jeans were the height of fashion. Fashion? The fashion of the day was hip-hugging bell-bottom jeans and Landlubber had the best there was. The jeans sat so low on the hips, the zipper was barely three inches long and often never used. They were easily slipped off without use. Good hip bones and wide leather belts kept them up.
Living in the woods complicated any ideas of keeping them clean, though the morning dew, rain puddles, and the ocean kept the bells wet most of the time. I was a bit short for most 'off the rack' clothing and grew up knowing how best to hem pants and skirts but we never hemmed jeans, cut them, frayed the edges, but never hemmed them. We walked off the excess in time creating an interesting coveted, look. Sandals or bare feet were the proper punctuation for this iconic look.
I spent the summer of 1971 living on the streets of Hyannis. I slept in the woods off of Route 132 or sometimes managed to scrape up enough money for a motel room. There were a few of us laughing at the tourists driving up the wrong way on Sea Street, as we considered ourselves 'locals'.
We were a fluid group, congregating on a grassy hill behind the stores on the main street by a public bathroom. We met to compare notes on police harassment or announce arrivals and departures to the community. To keep body and soul together we would panhandle or hawk the Phoenix newspaper to the summer crowds. I sang, back then and had traveled around the area with a folk singing guitar player named Jim during the previous year.
Jim had an antiquated idea of life that I didn't subscribe to and when I toppled that mythical cake I found myself homeless but not without options. The seaside community offered the coffeehouse tucked near the grassy hill where we gathered daily. Singing there provided 10% of the door to me even though Jim was no longer on guitar beside me. All I had to do was show up and check out the line up for the evening.
The cool, humid air of the past few days have brought me back to the summer of 1971. I remembered how difficult it was to light a match. Only a few had the coveted Zippo lighters but everyone smoked. I don't anymore and haven't for some thirty-plus years, but I remember well trying to light a match on Cape Cod in summer, watching them crumble as I struck them instead of flashing into flame.
Somewhere, under piles of memories, I still have my precious Landlubber jeans although I must confess I don't know how they managed to stay with me. Memories of that summer are some of the strongest and richest in my mind. There was a long list of characters that I never saw again once I hitchhiked out of town one chilled October morning.
Just a note: I went looking through the internet for possible photos of the Coffeehouse I speak of and I found references to both Coffeehouses in Hyannis in 1971, The Cave, and the Crossroads Coffeehouse. I'm writing about Crossroads.
Living in the woods complicated any ideas of keeping them clean, though the morning dew, rain puddles, and the ocean kept the bells wet most of the time. I was a bit short for most 'off the rack' clothing and grew up knowing how best to hem pants and skirts but we never hemmed jeans, cut them, frayed the edges, but never hemmed them. We walked off the excess in time creating an interesting coveted, look. Sandals or bare feet were the proper punctuation for this iconic look.
I spent the summer of 1971 living on the streets of Hyannis. I slept in the woods off of Route 132 or sometimes managed to scrape up enough money for a motel room. There were a few of us laughing at the tourists driving up the wrong way on Sea Street, as we considered ourselves 'locals'.
We were a fluid group, congregating on a grassy hill behind the stores on the main street by a public bathroom. We met to compare notes on police harassment or announce arrivals and departures to the community. To keep body and soul together we would panhandle or hawk the Phoenix newspaper to the summer crowds. I sang, back then and had traveled around the area with a folk singing guitar player named Jim during the previous year.
Jim had an antiquated idea of life that I didn't subscribe to and when I toppled that mythical cake I found myself homeless but not without options. The seaside community offered the coffeehouse tucked near the grassy hill where we gathered daily. Singing there provided 10% of the door to me even though Jim was no longer on guitar beside me. All I had to do was show up and check out the line up for the evening.
The cool, humid air of the past few days have brought me back to the summer of 1971. I remembered how difficult it was to light a match. Only a few had the coveted Zippo lighters but everyone smoked. I don't anymore and haven't for some thirty-plus years, but I remember well trying to light a match on Cape Cod in summer, watching them crumble as I struck them instead of flashing into flame.
Somewhere, under piles of memories, I still have my precious Landlubber jeans although I must confess I don't know how they managed to stay with me. Memories of that summer are some of the strongest and richest in my mind. There was a long list of characters that I never saw again once I hitchhiked out of town one chilled October morning.
Just a note: I went looking through the internet for possible photos of the Coffeehouse I speak of and I found references to both Coffeehouses in Hyannis in 1971, The Cave, and the Crossroads Coffeehouse. I'm writing about Crossroads.
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