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Hey Everyone,

Teen angst

My Brother and Me

I haven't abandoned my Hippie Girl blog entirely, I've just been focused on other projects. as if a prompt from the Universe, a package arrived in the mail from my Mother last week. Inside the box were stacks of old photos and boxes slides from from my childhood years. Browsing through the pictures triggered memories I had kept stored away in the cobwebby corners of my mind for decades. I posted some of the pics on my facebook account and quite soon afterward friends and family began commenting and sharing their own memories of those days. what a perfect gift from my mother at this time in my life when I have experienced so many transitions, transformations and am now in the delightful process of rebuilding. Rebuilding becomes much more authentic when we bring pieces of our history along for the ride!

Peace,

My Mom in her artists studio

Jenny

Guest Post, something to think about....

Hello Hippies, Activists and All who are ready to demand change!

I discovered this post on the Facebook group page, "Call For a General Strike". It is written by a group member, Bob Babcock who was kind enough to allow me to share. Bob's words illuminate the experiences of a generation, my generation. I hope they will serve as a rallying cry for those of us who were fortunate to have come of age at a time when Humanity itself seemed to be coming of age. We believed in so much possibility even as we watched our dreams shattered by senseless assassinations and a seemingly endless war. I hope Bob's word will help rekindle some fire in those who have become disillusioned and mired in the victimology of powerlessness. We are not powerless!

Peace and solidarity,

Jenny

Mommy and Daddy died . . .

I think the first time it happened in my life was back in 1963. My grandmother "Toots" died. It was the first time I thought about death. A few years later it happened again but much closer to home. My sister died. I was barely a teenager. She'd been sick a lot but the day she died she had actually gotten out of bed on her own. When I came home from school for lunch I overheard her telling Mom that she was dying, to which Mom responded "Nonsense honey, this is the first time you've been up and around for months. You're getting better!". Three hours later, she was gone.   As we get older it happens to all of us, more and more. We see it on TV and read it in the papers. After my grandmother, JFK was killed and the nation mourned. After my sister, there was Martin and then Bobbie. We mourned more. Our friends die in accidents, immediate and extended family from disease, too. As we get older we see more family die while others are born. I was able to cut the umbilical cords on my two youngest sons and give them their first baths at birth. Years later I was able to hold the hand of my fiancée and tell I love her as she died from ovarian cancer. Years later I didn't have the same privilege of saying goodbye to my youngest son . . .   It seems that the only thing that remains the same . . . is change. We're born. We live. We die. WE are responsible for what happens during the "living" part of life. I remember reading in Tom Wolfe's The Electric Kool-aid Acid Test a repetitive passage "either you're ON the bus, or OFF the bus". Life is like that.   So here's the thing: somewhere along the line, Mommy and Daddy died too. There's kind of an "ultimate lesson" learned when that happens: one REALLY has only one's self to rely on. You can't go "home" anymore if things don't work out. They're not there to fix it anymore.   Politics is like that . . .   . . . except that there NEVER really was no Mommy or Daddy. Reality? "If it is to be, it is up to me." Yeah. We WANT our leaders to fix it. But the economy/wars/ social injustice/environment, etc. isn't going to require a simple diaper change.   Democracy is dying. AMERICA as we know it is dying. Neither Daddy nor Mommy can fix it, and sometimes I think that our brothers and sisters are part of the problem. We, the people, have to do it.   If ANY President, Congressperson or other politician is going to have a HAND in fixing it, WE THE PEOPLE have to give them permission by the sheer number of our voices.   So far, we've FAILED. The powers that be have the money, the time and the think tanks to divide and conquer us. They're smart enough to ferment our discontent over the slow speed of change - a slow speed that they control with the lobbyist money and campaign contributions and Citizens United-like PAC's. They control the Main Stream Media through the advertising. They get us pitted against each other over who we support in the leadership.   Don't let them. Get over it. Mommy and Daddy died. No President or legislature is going to be able to fix ANYTHING until we gain enough mass. We have to educate each other and not hate each other over ideology. Tea Party members are NOT the enemy. Republican voters are NOT the enemy. Democrats are NOT the enemy. The lack of information and ideology is the enemy.   Again, it is the lack of information and education about the economy, the environment, energy, etc.   WE THE PEOPLE must be the "rising tide that lifts all boats." If you expect Obama to do it you'll be left in some rather large dirty diapers. It's not his fault; it's OUR expectations.   Talk to everyone about the issues. Have pot luck dinners together, coffees, barbeques, beer bashes, whatever . . . just like the teach-ins that helped stop the war in Viet Nam and the consciousness-raising groups that advanced women's rights.   The wars must end.   The economy must be for the common person.   The world needs clean energy independence.   We're all in this together.

By: Bob Babcock

CALL FOR GENERAL STRIKE FACEBOOK PAGE: 

 http://www.facebook.com/home.php?sk=group_130148043725404

I am a Work in Progress

Greetings,

Throughout the past year I have experimented with different blogs, formats and even adjusted the general theme of some of my sites. Most recently I have been consumed by the rapidly changing political and economic environment and the need for real social justice; and that has seeped into my other blogs.
I want to remain true to my purpose and intention for my writing and although there are indeed times when the personal intersects with the political I'd like to maintain the clarity of purpose on each blog. Therefore I am designating this blog as a forum for my political, social and cultural expression...this is what a Flower Child looks like as she blooms in adulthood. 

As always I welcome any feedback and discussion!

Peace,

Jen

Flower Child at work

Hey Everyone!
It's been quite some time since I've posted here. I've been quite busy with two other blogs and a Facebook group. I've also been quite involved   in political actions, networking, teaching and learning about the actions we citizens can take to confront Corporate/Political attempts to usurp out democracy and freedom. As I become increasingly involved, informed and passionate I frequently reflect on my wild, gypsy childhood and how it prepared me for an adulthood of passionate activism, critical thinking, problem solving and compassion. I'm working on a story, a 60's flower Child Adventure and promise to publish soon. In the meantime here are some pictures of me and brother enjoying free childhood and exploration. The cabin was my Paternal Grandparents, located in the Upper peninsula of Michigan, home to many childhood adventures spent living close to the Earth and learning her rhythms.

The Battle for Barbie

Barbie, Americas iconic supermodel, working woman and veterinarian was born in February 1959, same as me. Unlike me however, Barbie had sprung to life fully formed, blonde and perfect like a plastic Venus. By the mid 1960's Barbie was enjoying the spotlight as a high fashion modern woman with an ever expanding wardrobe of clothes and accessories. Naturally like all girls my age I wanted a piece of the action. My Mother on the other hand, wanted nothing to do with Barbie, her friends or the company that produced them. No matter how much I whined and asked ‘but why?’ she wouldn't give in. "Their shoes fall off and get lost". “Their heads pop off". "They have unrealistic bodies". Christmas was the worst; we were bombarded by advertising depicting happy, well dressed girls bonding in the Barbie sisterhood. Winter was boring; I never was much for playing in snow even as a child.
Like most obsessions, my designs on Barbie gradually simmered and as summer rolled in games of "ghost in the graveyard", kickball and riding bikes perilously through the neighbors’ yards kept me pretty well occupied.
One day, my best friend and I were wandering around the block looking for something to do and we came across a rummage sale, tables of cheesy colorful treasures and oddities and...Barbie. There she was lying stiffly on her back, her ridiculously pointed feet sans shoes, her breasts like holy pyramids piercing the summer sky. She had a red sheath cocktail dress, something satiny. The dresses had real zippers in those days, which generally snagged on the stitching. But nothing could deter me. She was available for the low cost of one quarter, which I just happened to have from allowance.
I remember strutting into the kitchen Barbie in hand, the flimsy screen door slamming behind me in a Declaration of my Independence.


My mother looked baffled “where did you get that?” she wasn’t angry, just puzzled


I explained that I had taken matters into my own hands and since I had spent my own money I felt it was only fair that I should be able to keep her. There was no way this woman, raised with a Yankee work ethic could disagree “Well I suppose so,” she sighed “but don’t be surprised when her head pops off”.


The next few days were spent indulging Barbie in bubble baths, hair styles and my attempts to create some sort of alternate wardrobe out of fabric scraps, ribbon and various other household items, including electricians tape. Pretty soon it was becoming evident that without her entourage, multiple accessories and costume changes, Barbie was like many other Socialites, just another girl with lots of clothes and big boobs. I began to crave the accoutrements, the plastic coat hangers, the costume changes, the tiny shoes. Barbie is like cocaine, a little bit leads to more...and more. Like many addicts, I turned to crime to feed my craving. I stole a brush set from a girl down the street, rationalizing, as all good criminals do, that she had more money and more toys and therefore it wouldn’t be missed. The set was white, swirly plastic no doubt intended to resemble mother of pearl. It came with a little hand mirror, which I tried in vain to have Barbie hold in her hand gazing in appreciation as I styled her hair.


Maybe it was karma; after all I had stolen the brush set. Maybe it was simply a case of mother is always right which really just another form of karma; but as I was combing her fossilized perm I hit a snag. Then it happened. I gazed in horror at the comb with Barbies head dangling by a few stubborn hairs. In my other hand her body, still awkwardly holding the mirror, reflecting back the mayhem that had just befallen the teen queen.


Shit. I prayed silently that my mother wouldn’t make a surprise visit to my room as I desperately twisted, pushed and cajoled her head back on the stub of her neck. First I pushed too hard, leaving her lower jaw scrunched her face puffy and jowly. One I did get things positioned correctly; I discovered that true to my mother’s words, her head didn’t quite fit the same as before, it was a little looser and more wobbly.


My mother had enough kindness and discretion to not say “I told you so” and eventually the lure of Barbie faded in favor of Trolls or Creepy Crawlers.


Barbie was finally put to rest in the California street rain sewer, duct taped to her lover GI Joe in a rather unladylike manner.


She is survived by pink haired troll and several rubbery centipedes.



© 2011 Jennifer Hazard

Gross Out Night

Life wasn't all "life on the farm" as I'd described in my first blog. In fact we, my brother and I, had several "lives" growing up due to my parents changing relationships and frequent geographical relocation. Life with Mom during those years following my parents’ divorce and extending into the 70’s, was in many ways very different than life with Dad, and in other ways much the same.

The philosophy of letting kids be kids and allowing lots of creative playtime was shared in both worlds. My mom, however, was more restrictive when it came to health in general and specifically food; food and vitamins.

At that time life with Mom included my Moms roommate/best friend/partner and her three children; two boys one my age and one a year younger and a daughter my brothers age. We were sort of two separate clans, the big kids and the little kids when it came to certain rights and privileges.

 At that time my Mom had befriended several women who were as my father described them “Health food nuts”. These women were fans of a popular author at the time, Adelle Davis, who wrote books about nutrition. All of her book titles began with the word “let’s...” “Let’s eat right and be Healthy”, like we were all invited to some big happy bland tasting gritty food party. My Moms best friend who we lived with briefly following the divorce, used to have a cupcake tin on the kitchen table, which was the vitamin tray. Each rusty little cup help and handful of vitamins, a rainbow of colors. They all had one thing in common, they tasted nasty and they represented to us kids, a classic parent/child power struggle.

The vitamins weren’t the only issue. We ate homemade what bread, sugar free cereal, fruits and vegetables were a must. There were no potato chips, soda, ding dongs, twinkies, t.v. dinners or any of the other “fun foods” we saw on television and at friends houses.

Our mothers cared about our health and proper nutrition and EVEN THOUGH WE COMPLAINED ENDLESSLY, I think we knew, even then, that that was a great gift of love.

I order to lighten the burden of having to eat “Health Food” and to encourage cooperation, the “Big Kids” were allowed the privilege of “gross out night”.

Gross out night was on a weekend night, I can’t remember if it was Friday or Saturday, but it was the same night the old cheesy horror movies were on. The ones with disembodied hands that strangle innocent sleeping victims, mummies being summoned odd looking men muttering odd sounding incantations, monsters that devour teenagers while they are making out in their car or on the beach. You know, the classics.

In addition to staying up late watching our grainy black and white t.v., the one with the broken antenna that was wrapped with tinfoil, we got to choose and prepare our own desserts. Even then we were limited to foods that were not too highly processed, not too filled with chemicals and artificial colors. Naturally we took our culinary

The usual permitted fare was ice cream, pudding, graham crackers or Nilla Wafers and some sort of chocolate sauce or Ovaltine. Being that is was the weekend, the late 60’s and our Moms were enjoying the newfound liberation of divorced life I don’t recall there being much supervision while we concocted our compensation for a week of healthy eating. The best, and most often indulged in treat, involved using all the permitted ingredients, combined in one bowl.

Here’s the recipe:

Line your bowl with graham crackers or Nilla wafers, add a heaping scoop or two or three, of ice cream, pour hot pudding (we only had the cooked kind back then) over the ice cream, top with more crackers or wafers and whatever other topping was available, Ovaltine, Hersheys etc.  Grab pillows, blankets, jockey for position in front of the tiny tv making certain you’re in a position that won’t cause interference with the antenna and enjoy watching 1950’s looking teenagers getting murdered.

It doesn’t get much better than that.