Rupert

While strolling through the mall recently, I accidentally ran into Rupert, an old friend of mine I first met in my young bohemian days in the sixties. We greeted each other enthusiastically; so much so that we lost our balance and tumbled down the “up” escalator, scattering fellow shoppers over the railings. We escaped serious injury, but temporarily knocked ourselves unconscious. After regaining my senses, I immediately revived Rupert and invited him to have a drink and catch up on old times.

When we originally met in that far out and now faraway decade, Rupert was a zucchini farmer living in North Carolina. He reveled in the hippy scene–the drugs, sex, and rock and roll, though not in that order. I would sit and listen to him for hours as he regaled me with his adventures at anti-war protests and civil rights marches. He was especially fond of Woodstock memories and would repeatedly recount how he met and had sex with Janis Joplin then shared a joint with Jimi Hendrix, and vice versa.

I was always skeptical of his stories because he never seemed to leave the farm. In fact, I worked with him for five years, from 1967 to 1972, until I inherited a thriving dulcimer shop from my aunt. I told him about my doubts concerning his tales while we drank at our impromptu reunion.

“Yeah, I never did any of that shit,” he said. “But I did grow a zucchini that resembled Joan Baez once.”