The Summer of Love sets the stage for a lifelong relationship with cannabis.
In the Summer of Love, 1967, I was an awkward 12-year-old girl on the brink of wanting to become either a nun or a hippie. Being born in San Francisco was my first blessing in life, so there I was, a curious adolescent, observing this new breed of young person invading our city. We lived in the Richmond District, not far from Golden Gate Park, and how well I recall seeing my first gathering of the tribe — a free concert in the Panhandle part of the park. My Republican father and I were driving past when a group of hippies walked in front of our car and I was stunned. They looked so free, so happy. Looking at the guys with long hair, my father simply stated, “You can’t tell the boys from the girls anymore.” I was instantly intrigued.
As we embark upon the 50th anniversary of the Summer of Love I am reminded of those early days of getting high. “Tune In, Turn On, Drop Out” was the motto of our generation, and by the time I was 14, I was exploring all three of those options. I would have been a fully blossomed flower child if I’d run away to the Haight Ashbury district of town, where all the hippies lived, but how could I run away when I lived so close already? Even without cell phones in those days, my parents would have found me in a moment.