“If you grow old, it is your own fault,”

 

“If you grow old, it is your own fault,”

I say to Terry as we climb the hill
behind his cabin. Terry is wearing
a device that transmits his heartbeat
by cell phone to doctors at Stanford.
Terry has a flutter, nothing serious, probably.
Terry has a great heart, actually,
something serious, warm and wise.

We ascend this hill on Tuesdays every week
discussing plumbing and poetry, our
twin passions: the gathering of mountain water
funneled into pipes, delivered to homes;
the ordering of words funneled into pages,
delivered by journals, rarely.

We hike among redwoods where Kesey
painted his bus, where Cassidy chattered,
where Hells Angels gathered,
where Kool-Aid mattered.
We speak of friends fallen or falling,
the fate of pranksters, the allure of aura.
‘Old hippies’ is an oxymoron.
We are pacifists who walked away
from a war that shaped our lives,
walked to a dishonorable discharge
for honoring conscience.

So we hike, hearts pounding,
the simple friendship of two old men
seeking the hilltop again and again.

…..

From my book Foggy Dog
First published in MOON Magazine —thank you editor Leslee Goodman
Photo is of Terry (left) and me.

Note: Terry Adams rescued and restored the Ken Kesey cabin in La Honda. The saga of that rescue is here.