Category Archives: Community

Hippies Plague the Women’s Club!

history

http://www.gpb.org/media/pdf/peachtreestreet.pdf

IN THE LATE 1960S AND EARLY 1970S, THE MEMBERS FACED A VERY  DIFFERENT PROBLEM – A PLAGUE OF HIPPIES. 

 Jim Auchmutey #31   [08:16:57:00]   The strip was that area up around Peachtree and 10th street that was uh the south’s little version of Haight Ashbury.  And uh I remember going down during the summer of 1970 when I was not quite 15 years old.  And it was the first time I’d ever let my hair grow over – I had hair – I’d ever let my hair grow over my ears.  (08:17:16:00)   (08:17:26:00) The streets would just be crawling with folks.  I mean, there, there was a real happening place then.  And Margaret Mitchell’s old neighborhood had become hippie.  And uh I’d buy bootleg records down there and blacklight  posters.

 [08:17:38:00]   (08:18:50:00)  And a lot of people who had – who were probably appalled by hippies, were coming down there uh the traffic used to be backed up on Peachtree for miles uh with folks from the burbs coming in to look at all these people, you know.  That was, that was what everybody was talking about back then, so everybody wanted to come down and see it.  It was like the big cruising scene. 

(08;19;11) 

NARRATION:    THE MEMBERS OF THE ATLANTA WOMAN’S CLUB HUNKERED DOWN AND TRIED TO IGNORE THE HIPPIES SLEEPING ON THEIR PORCH.  IT WOULD PROVE TO BE A SHORT-LIVED PHENOMENON.    MIDTOWN WAS ABOUT TO SHAKE OFF ITS SLEEPY POST-WAR LOOK TO BECOME ATLANTA’S SECOND BUSINESS CENTER  AND ITS CULTURAL CENTER.  

 THE ARTS WERE BEGINNING TO FLOURISH IN THE NEW MEMORIAL ARTS CENTER, DEDICATED IN 1968 TO THE MEMORY OF 106 ATLANTA ARTS PATRONS WHO DIED IN A 1962 PLANE CRASH IN ORLY, FRANCE.  HERE THE SYMPHONY, THE HIGH MUSEUM OF ART, THE ATLANTA COLLEGE OF ART AND THE ALLIANCE THEATER ALL HAD ROOM TO GROW.   IN 1982 THE CENTER WAS RENAMED THE ROBERT W. WOODRUFF ARTS CENTER ON THE 

93RD BIRTHDAY OF THE COCA COLA MAGNATE, WHO HAD BY THEN GIVEN IT ABOUT $50 MILLION.     THE NEXT YEAR, THE HIGH MUSEUM MOVED INTO A NEW SIGNATURE BUILDING NEXT DOOR.  TODAY THE WOODRUFF ARTS MUSEUM.

all that typical hippie junk no one believes in anymore. Right?

feed your head, history, Lifestyles

Posted by CN Staff on August 22, 2007 at 09:09:59 PT

By Mark Morford, SF Gate Columnist 

Source: SF Gate

USA — Go ahead, name your movement. Name something good and positive and pro-environment and eco-friendly that’s happening in the newly “greening” of America and don’t say more guns in Texas or fewer reproductive choices for women because that would defeat the whole point of this perky little column and destroy its naive tone of happy rose-colored optimism. OK?

I’m talking about, say, energy-efficient lightbulbs. I’m looking at organic foods going mainstream. I mean chemical-free cleaning products widely available at Target and I’m talking saving the whales and protecting the dolphins.

I mean yoga studios flourishing in every small town, giant boxes of organic cereal at Costco and the Toyota Prius becoming the nation’s oddest status symbol. You know, good things.

Look around: We have entire industries devoted to recycled paper, a new generation of cheap solar-power technology and an Oscar for “An Inconvenient Truth.” Even the soulless corporate monsters over at famously heartless joints like Wal-Mart are now claiming that they really, really care about saving the environment because, well, “it’s the right thing to do” (read: “It’s purely economic and all about their bottom line”).

There is but one conclusion you can draw from the astonishing pro-environment sea change happening in the culture and (reluctantly, nervously) in the halls of power in D.C., one thing we must all acknowledge in our wary, jaded, globally warmed universe: The hippies had it right all along.

All this hot enthusiasm for healing the planet and eating whole foods and avoiding chemicals and working with nature and developing the self? Came from the hippies. Alternative health? Hippies. Green cotton? Hippies. Reclaimed wood? Recycling? Humane treatment of animals? Medical pot? Alternative energy? Natural childbirth? Non-GMA seeds? It came from the granola types (who, of course, absorbed much of it from ancient cultures), from the alternative worldviews, from the underground and the sidelines and from far off the grid and it’s about time the media, the politicians, the culture as a whole sent out a big, hemp-covered apology.

Here’s a suggestion, from one of my more astute ex-hippie readers: Instead of issuing carbon credits so industrial polluters can clear their collective corporate conscience, maybe, to help offset all the damage they’ve done to the soul of the planet all these years, these commercial cretins should instead buy some karma credits from the former hippies themselves. You know, from those who’ve been working for the health of the planet, quite thanklessly, for 50 years and who have, as a result, built up quite a storehouse of good karma. You think?

Of course, you can easily argue that much of the “authentic” hippie ethos — the anti-corporate ideology, the sexual liberation, the anarchy, the push for civil rights, the experimentation — has been totally leached out of all these new movements, that corporations have forcibly co-opted and diluted every single technology and humble pro-environment idea and Ben & Jerry’s ice cream cone and Odwalla smoothie to make them both palatable and profitable. But does this somehow make the organic oils in that body lotion any more harmful? Verily, it does not.

You might also just as easily claim that much of the nation’s reluctant turn toward environmental health has little to do with the hippies per se, that it’s taking the threat of global meltdown combined with the notion of really, really expensive ski tickets to slap the nation’s incredibly obese butt into gear and force consumers to wake up to the gluttony and wastefulness of American culture as everyone starts wondering, “Oh my God, what’s going to happen to swimming pools and NASCAR and free shipping from Amazon?” Of course, without the ’60s groundwork, without all the radical ideas and seeds of change planted nearly five decades ago, what we’d be turning to in our time of need would be a great deal more hopeless indeed.

But if you’re really bitter and shortsighted, you could say the entire hippie movement overall was just incredibly overrated, gets far too much cultural credit for far too little actual impact, was pretty much a giant excuse to slack off and enjoy dirty, lazy, responsibility-free sex romps and do a ton of drugs and avoid Vietnam and not bathe for a month and name your child Sunflower or Shiva Moon or Chakra Lennon Sapphire Bumblebee. This is what’s called the reactionary simpleton’s view. It blithely ignores history, perspective, the evolution of culture as a whole. You know, just like America.

But, you know, whatever. The proof is easy enough to trace. The core values and environmental groundwork laid by the ’60s counterculture are still so intact and potent that even the stiffest neocon Republican has to acknowledge their extant power. It’s all right there: Treehugger.com is the new ’60s underground hippie zine. Ecstasy is the new LSD. Visible tattoos are the new longhairs. And bands as diverse as Pearl Jam, Bright Eyes, NIN and the Dixie Chicks are writing anti-Bush, anti-war songs for a new, ultra-jaded generation.

And, oh yes, speaking of good ol’ MDMA (Ecstasy), even drug culture is getting some new respect. Staid old Time mag just ran a rather snide little story about the new studies being conducted by Harvard and the National Institute of Mental Health into the astonishing psycho-spiritual benefits of goodly entheogens such as LSD, psilocybin and MDMA. Unfortunately, the piece basically backhands Timothy Leary and the entire “excessive,” “naive” drug culture of yore in favor of much more “sane” and “careful” scientific analysis happening now, as if the only valid methods for attaining knowledge and an understanding of spirit were through control groups and clinical, mysticism-free examination. Please.

Still, the fact that serious scientific research into entheogens is being conducted even in the face of the most anti-science, pro-pharmaceutical, ultraconservative presidential regime in recent history is proof enough that all the hoary hippie mantras about expanding the mind and touching God through drugs were onto something after all (yes, duh). Tim Leary is probably smiling wildly right now — though that might be because of all the mushrooms he’s been sharing with Kerouac and Einstein and Mary Magdalene. Mmm, heaven.

Of course, true hippie values mean you’re not really supposed to care about or attach to any of this, you don’t give a damn for the hollow ego stroke of being right all along, for slapping the culture upside the head and saying, “See? Do you see? It was never about the long hair and the folk music and Woodstock and taking so much acid you see Jesus and Shiva and Buddha tongue kissing in a hammock on the Dog Star, nimrods.”

It was, always and forever, about connectedness. It was about how we are all in this together. It was about resisting the status quo and fighting tyrannical corporate/political power and it was about opening your consciousness and seeing new possibilities of how we can all live with something resembling actual respect for the planet, for alternative cultures, for each other. You know, all that typical hippie junk no one believes in anymore. Right?

Memories of The Dead in Piedmont Park 7/7/69

Festivals, history, tell your story

We were married  07/07/69 at the “Free Concert” in the park after  the 1st Atlanta POP.

Schroeder & Renée

billhowell
Schroder and his beloved Renee, Hippie love story – together till he recently died.

The Piedmont show which actually 2 or 3 days after, Tuesday I believe was the result of politics.  According to the Great speckled Bird, “How could we charge $$$ for music … even $13.50 a day.”  we had to do something to appease the social uproar over our commercialism.  Spirit, CTA, and Delaney and Bonnie stuck around for room and board.  And the Dead played for travel, rooms and beer.  So yes I was very involved in it as well as the rest of the team.

I remember Pigpen cracking two cases of beer, neatly arranging them on the balustrade around the pavilion, and calmly dosing each one with premium Owsley Acid.  Everyone around the pavilion was glowing.

 I would love to have a list of the people that attended the FREE concert in Piedmont Park after that Festival with Spirit, Chicago Transit Authority, Delaney and Bonnie and Friends (including Dave Mason and others), and THE GREATFUL DEAD.  That was the seminal moment.- Robin Conant

Delaney and Bonnie & Friends start off the afternoon.

 Very nice. I can tell you why there was no one there at 1:00PM. The performers who stayed after the last night of the Pop Festival were all invited to “The River House” a rather infamous hippie house on Riverside Drive. Quite a few made the trip, including “The Dead” Those memories are a bit fuzzy, so I’m not sure who all was there. I vaguely remember sitting outside on the ground watching the sun come up and singing folk songs with Jerry Garcia playing acoustic guitar. Seems like there was a bunch of people making music, but I couldn’t swear who was there. John Ivey & Ricky Bear, local studio musicians, lived nearby on the river. They may have been there; possibly Barry Bailey. Barry played a lot with John & Ricky. Studio work and just local jams. This was when “The Joint Effort” was changing its name to the Atlanta Rhythm Section. A PR decision. Anyhow, no one woke up before late afternoon and that threw the free concert behind schedule.

 If you hear from John Ivey or anyone else from the River House, please let me know.

 

If you were there, what are YOUR experiences

 

The Twelfth Gate is a church for turned-on types.

Clubs, Community

Atlanta Constitution Magazine  June 9, 1968 pg. 24

The Twelfth Gate is a church for turned-on types. Coffeehouse Preach-In

By Olive Ann Burns  (note the wonderful Southern author)

image001THERE’LL be a preach-in and love feast at Piedmont Park this afternoon if it doesn’t rain.

The crowd will gather at 12:30, as usual on Sundays, at The Twelfth Gate, 36 Tenth St. NW, an old two-story green house with red, gold, blue, pink and tan trim, like straight out of a storybook, man.

If we have a great big beautiful day, the community of worshippers—many of them as bearded as the early Christians—will walk eight blocks together to Piedmont Park for a be-in by the lake. In full view of the park’s usual Sunday population of ballplayers, bird watchers, lovers and picnickers, The Coffeehouse Church will begin its celebration of worship by reading aloud:

image003“We gather as we live, in the Name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit . . .. 0 Lord, we confess our slowness to see the good in our brothers, the evil in ourselves.

 And this is the one objective and ever lasting truth—in Jesus Christ our sins are forgiven. May we receive the gift and live . . ..”

 A handsome, dark-eyed young Methodist minister will preach the sermon—the Rev. Bruce Donnelly, who speaks straight from the hip about the fact that for thousands years “turned-on types have experienced religious highs—visions and trips even—without the aid of mind-expanding drugs.” He talks about what’s wrong with straight society and what’s wrong with hippies, about what it means to be free: Free to love God, free to give, free to be sincere, not hung-up in guilts, fears or prejudices.

Even without a tie, the Rev. Donne looks like a product of straight society, which he is. He grew up as a Methodist Youth Fellowship leader at Peachtree Road Methodist Church in Buckhead, was president of his fraternity at Emory University and three years ago married a lovely straight-type Agnes Scott College graduate named Barbara Chambers. But he digs the needs of the artsy, folksy, craftsy types among the 25,000 unmarried young adults who live in Atlanta’s 10th Street area.

Bruce’s thing is The Twelfth Gate: On Sundays a religious community, the rest of the week a coffeehouse A place to talk play chess, buy a girl a gift. take a free course—in ESP or leathercraft, yogi-style meditating or the parables of Jesus—or sit over coffee and salami in rapt silence while the folk singers do their thing with songs like “Saturday Night and Sunday Morning’ or “Isn’t It a Drag That People Take Tranquilizers “

THE house opens every night at 8. The music starts at 9 Cover charge 50 cents or a dollar. No LSD. no pot, no beer, no whisky, no crash-pad, no nightclub-types jokes, no go-go. You could take visiting preachers, fifth-grade Girl Scouts or sheltered teen-agers there for the music and find nothing objectionable—unless you object to beards, candle light, red walls, satirical posters, a heavy fog of cigarette smoke or jokes about “kids on pot today, speed yesterday and acid the day before, but if you mention a cocktail, man, they wouldn’t touch the stuff, and that’s what I call hip-pocrisy. “

Unlike some other coffeehouses, the only pot available at The Gate is the kind that holds 50 cents worth of exotic coffee or tea. Jasmine and Himalayan Darjeeling have to compete with Georgia sassafras, brewed for the coffeehouse by a red-bearded folk singer who was once an Eagle Scout and got expelled from college for joining the march on Selma.

image005THE upstairs Head Shop sells no water pipes, roll-your-own cigarette papers or other equipment for smoking pot. It merely has folk records, books, posters, horoscopes, and lapel buttons that say, “God Is Alive and Well in Mexico City” or “Keep the X in Xmas.” In the Flower Shop, also upstairs, you can buy trappings of the hippie subculture—candles, beads. Incense (10 cents a stick), metal crosses hung on thongs, psychedelic sunglasses, and paper flowers. But there’s nothing weirdo about paper flowers when you find out they were made by student nurses at Georgia Baptist Hospital.

What’s so great about flowers” “They’re a symbol of beauty and peace, you never see one flower fighting another flower.” explained Brenda Brantly, the 23-year-old very unhippie engineering data clerk who is chairman of The Coffeehouse Church’s official board. Brenda came to Atlanta from Milner, Ga., and has surely seen a honeysuckle vine smothering a rose bush, but that’s what she said.

Despite all the beards, beads and sandals. The Twelfth Gate is too straight for most hippies. “I think I’ve finally convinced my father,” said Brenda. “that the kids here just aren’t interested in freaking out.” The working girls and boys, the college and trade-school kids and student nurses who patronize The Gate turn on with poetry, folk songs, art or religion, not with drugs.

Yet a Georgia Tech sorority refused to initiate a pledge when the members learned she’d been going there, and a lot of parents can’t believe any coffeehouse on 10th Street could really be nice.

 “Part of the problem.” said Bruce. “is newspaper articles that call this a hippie house and label me as a minister to mixed-up kids. Also there’s the public notion that anybody who has a chin growth or long hair or sings folk songs is a hippie. This is just not a hippie thing. We’ve had no trouble with kids trying to take drugs here. Those who come are bright, turned on to life, with a great depth and capacity for enjoyment. But most of them have too much sense to risk damage from LSD or a police record from marijuana. If you say the sun is beautiful today, they don’t automatically think, “Yeah, but it would be really great under grass.”

image007“Sure. some of the kids have problems, especially with money. Most of those who left home because of family conflicts—or to be on their own were told by mommy and daddy, “Okay, you won’t live with us, we won’t send .you to college or pay your rent.”  But they’re working out their problems in responsible ways. And they run this place responsibly. It’s the only church of 18 to 25-year-olds anywhere, that I know of, and we’ve never been late with a bill. Out of coffeehouse profits we pay me, we pay rent and overhead. We spent $2,500 this year sending three students to art school, and we’ll do that again next year. We’ll also give $3,300 to the Methodist inner-city ministry here. This inter-city program will pay my salary beginning in July, but the kids will then pay a manager—a soldier at Ft Mac named Pete Schoen. He’s getting out of service soon and will take over buying groceries, booking folk singers -and-running the staff, so I can have more time for running the church and counseling.”

MOST of the kids who come to The Twelfth Gate are between 18 and 25. (Bruce is 26.) Most of Atlanta’s hippies are just 13 to 17.

“There are only about 250 of these bubble-gum hippies and teeny-boppers in the 10th Street area,” said the young minister, “I’m talking about the ones whose life-style includes philosophizing, sharing what they have, not working at regular jobs. I’m talking about resident hippies, right? I don’t mean the 2,000 kids under 18 who hit Atlanta last summer.

“The vacation hippies fell in three categories: Those having trouble at home, those who wanted to see what it’s like to be on their own, and a minority who came for thrills—for sex and drugs and the glamour of running away.

“They came from all over the South, but a lot of the summer kids. were runaways from $50,000 homes in the Atlanta suburbs. Some stopped shaving, mussed their hair, went dirty, wore beads swiped from mom, stood on the corner of 14th and Peachtree to get stared at and learned to say would you be-in to a cup of coffee. To them everything was psychedelic, man, meaning colored lights, not consciousness-expanding. But most of them went back home after two or three weeks—when they got sick or real hungry, or maybe it was time for school to start. Unfortunately, a lot of the thrill-seekers went home really messed up on LSD—or VD.”

According to Bruce, the word is out that Atlanta is where it’s at this summer, man, the place to be: “Some think we can expect 16,000 to 18,000 between 13 and 15 years old. The out of-towners think Atlanta won’t lock up or run out that many. Well, Atlanta will. If 18,000 come, 16, 000 will soon leave. The problems of runaways aren’t solved by police harassment, but this city is just not equipped to take care of a big migration of teen-agers.”

A lot of parents and policemen call The Gate about runaways, from as far away as California and Idaho. One month Bruce located 20 kids out of 90 calls. “But I don’t really have much time. I often drop by the crash-pads or apartments where hippies live when the coffeehouse closes at midnight, and some hippies come to our church service on Sunday. But the heartache is that I’m not really helping these younger kids and nobody else in Atlanta is.  A lot of them are real sharp and talk about real gutty issues, but The Gate doesn’t attract them. Young teen-agers aren’t interested in sitting around listening to folk singers. What they want is a rock house—a nice dance place. All we’d need to start one is an empty warehouse or auditorium with a jukebox and soft-drink machine. No chairs, no tables. no overhead. Psychedelic light shows maybe, and let them rock out. Young kids have a lot of stored-up tension and dancing is still the safest way they can work it off. But churches tend to back away from this fact.”

BRUCE got up to greet the red-bearded folk singer, who had walked in with a gallon jug of clear red sassafras tea hanging from each forefinger. The minister wrote him out a check for it, and they talked for a few minutes — debating whether it was anger or hate that Christ felt for the money changers when He drove them out of the temple. The bearded man said he thought what’s wrong with most Christians is “they won’t decide what they’re against and then take a public stand against it.” Bruce said, “I’m just not as much of a revolutionary as you are, but I do believe in Christian action.”

Then he was called to the phone I couldn’t help listening: “You want a real hippie or somebody who looks like one” . . . Right. The Marietta YMCA, next Sunday night. I’ll see what I can do for you.”

He hung up and grinned. “It’s gotten so part of my job is booking hippies or bearded folk singers for churches, schools and civic groups. I’m a sort of rent-a-hippie agency except I don’t get paid. If an MYF group asks for somebody to perform and tell about our ministry; I send one of The Gate’s folk singers, or an art student who puts on light shows he films himself, or this kid who makes and plays vagabond instruments. But if they want a real hippie, I go out to the crash-pads and find them one. Hippies like to talk about their thing. Besides, they’re usually hungry, and churches have good suppers. Anyway, I went to look for this certain kid a few weeks ago and he’d just cut his hair. I said, ‘Look, they want a hippie in full costume, right” What kind of impression you gonna make, man, with that short hair?’ He said he could borrow a wig. When his audience got to asking why he had long hair, he took off the wig and said, “What’s that again?’ “

ONE thing you learn at The Twelfth Gate is that it takes more than long hair or a beard to be a hippie. A folk singer said he wears one “because I happen to have a very fat face and besides it’s easier to get a singing job if you have a good growth.” A Gate waitress said some of the guys are just too lazy to shave, or want something to hide behind Roger Swanson, who looks like straight out of the Bible, has just always liked beards.image009

“I got out of the Marine Corps on Nov. 6 last year,” he said, “and Nov. 6 was the last day I shaved. At first I was very paranoid about the beard. I didn’t like being considered a hippie and it was hard to get an apartment. Some of the hippies do skip out on rent. You can’t blame the landladies. But it’s not hard to get a job with a beard, by the way—not in Atlanta, not if you do good work. I’m a carpenter’s helper. I also write poetry. I went to college for five years before the Marine Corps. But I’ve just gotten interested in this writing thing, also in photography.”

Roger often emcees at the coffeehouse – introducing the poets and folk singers, reminding patrons that the waitresses work for nothing except maybe $2 a night in tips, “so please cross their palms with silver when you say thanks and we have church here on Sunday afternoons at 12:30. Church does take the drag out of Sunday, so come on over.”

The Coffeehouse Church is called a “ministry” by the Methodist’s North Georgia Conference. It’s not a full-fledged church yet in the sense of a membership roll, but the kids are hoping it soon will be. Besides Sunday services, it has all the Methodist trappings, including a budget ($27,500 for next year), an official board and committees for finance, worship, programs and social concerns.

The social concerns committee ran a tutoring service for children in Vine City last summer. Two boys go to East Lake Methodist every Saturday to help with a recreation program for 270 colored children. Four of The Gate’s folk singers go on tour, booked for Methodist Youth Fellowship meetings and openings of church coffeehouses. The kids have now started a fellowship supper on Sunday nights, with ministers, politicians, city planners, lawyers, doctors, sociologists and other specialists who discuss the needs of the young people in the 10th Street area and help decide The gate’s best course of action.

As a result, the coffeehouse now has an employment agency and a free medical clinic.

“Our kids man the waiting room and screen all the patients,” said Bruce. “The clinic is now open every Monday and Thursday night at First Presbyterian Church with psychologists for counseling and doctors and nurses supplied by the Fulton County Medical Association. We had a clinic last summer in my office at the coffeehouse, with just one doctor, man, and we couldn’t take care of all the patients here.”

The Twelfth Gate began a year and a half ago at Grace Methodist Church, when Bruce was an assistant pastor there. It was Grace’s effort to “do something” for the non-churched young people in the downtown community.

Diane Smith, a beautiful girl with hair to her waist, had sat listening while Bruce talked. “I was one of the original weirdos who came to The Gate when it was at Grace,” she said. “In those days none of us kids worked. We talked all night and slept till 3 in the afternoon, and if you worked, you missed out, right? I got in a real bind with money. I’ve been through the starvation bit, the having-your-gas-turned-off bit, the corn-meal boiled in water, you know, with days of nothing. and then one of the boys would earn $5 singing folk songs or a girl would wait tables for a night, and then we’d buy potatoes and a cheap roast and cook it at my apartment. I’ve had a straight job for some time now and I’m out of debt.

“But back to our weirdo days. We used to wish so much,” said Diane. “that we had a nice place to go. One night somebody said a minister had opened a coffeehouse over on Charles Alien Drive.

Oh, right, a minister has opened a coffeehouse. We shrugged it off. Then a handful of us went over to see. It was just a six-room old house with no atmosphere, and the folk singers weren’t hired. Mostly they were those of us who could sing. But Bruce was marvelous. Just nice. We kept going back and taking our friends, and after the place closed at midnight, Bruce and his wife would come to our apartment and 30 or 40 of us would talk all night.

AT Grace they all assumed we were hippies on drugs, of course. I don’t say to the potheads, hey, I’m going to hate you for taking the stuff, but I don’t want to be around them. What’s so great about watching a kid on LSD giggling like a maniac while he crawls around on the floor, talking to dust, and then going wild remembering the awful things people have done to him, and getting crazy for revenge. It’s horrible and repulsive. And what’s so great about seeing a girl who has everything going for her get so messed up on drugs she loses her job and her friends and all she’s got left are hippies like herself. Last time I saw her she was under acid and could see her self down in a soft-drink can just a tiny little person down in a can.

“Anyway, at Grace they put out all this effort to get us and then they didn’t know what to do with us. The coffeehouse was so successful we were spilling out into the yard — maybe 300 kids a night, and some of the neighbors were complaining. We got the idea we were less welcome and Bruce was getting more and more criticized, right? We thought, if the kids went to church it would show the members that Bruce was doing some good, you know, so about 20 or 30 us went to a pre-Easter service last year. Catholics, Jews, Baptists, Methodists. nothings. The guys were clean and dressed up in suits and had their beards trimmed, and the girls put on dresses, right? We sat in the back, you know, and everybody was nice to us. but like we had this feeling we’d made everybody uncomfortable. Maybe the embarrassment was all on our part, but we could see them thinking if a bearded long haired type joined the church or the choir, and that TV camera zoomed in on him, people watching television would say,” Goodness, look at Grace” Right?”

“FOR just this reason.” said Bruce. “I get more and more convinced that churches need to specialize. A minister who invites everyone in the TV audience to ‘come worship with us next Sunday’ might get a shock if they all did. It wouldn’t work, not because of snobbery or prejudice or hypocrisy. but because people who look or feel different aren’t comfortable. Everybody has a label in straight society. A boy holds a cigarette in an effeminate manner, he’s called a homo. Maybe he is, maybe he isn’t, he’s branded all the same. A guy has a beard. He’s branded a hippie, though he may have a very straight job. A girl has her “hair long and wears levis and paints pictures, she’s a weirdo. Eggheads may be respected these days, but a boy who’d rather write poetry than play or watch football is looked upon with suspicion. And there are some young people who, let’s face it, just aren’t very attractive on the surface, though they may have a depth and sincerity and loyalty you rarely find in the typical frat house or MYF group.

“The beauty of a coffeehouse is that you can expose people of all types and backgrounds to each other. With the candle light and music and coffee they relax, open up and be come themselves. Things seem more real. They don’t have to wear masks, or pretend what they don’t believe. They share a sense of belonging, and I am absolutely convinced that the need to belong to somebody is the most basic need of human beings, more basic than the need for food or sex or creativeness.”

“The kids who came to The Twelfth Gate when it was at Grace were so hungry for deep friendships they could forget food. The strange thing that happened there was the way all of a sudden, after four or five months, without my giving them any lectures about loafing, those 30 or 40 self styled weirdos started hunting jobs. They had begun to see that life is more than having friends and talking all night, that it matters to have some reason to get up in the morning. Some cut their hair and beards some didn’t. Nearly all went to work.”

Most of them were committed Christians and felt that Christ was alive in their lives says Bruce. “but they didn’t feel they had found a way to live for others. Then the kids decided to start a coffeehouse right on 10th Street, so others cotild have the chance to find themselves—the way they had at the Grace coffeehouse. The Methodist North Georgia Conference gave me the assignment, provided we’d held regular worship services.”

So The Twelfth Gate opens its door every Sunday as The Coffeehouse Church, when they aren’t having a preach-in at Piedmont Park. The kids sit in twos and fours around the tables for the sermon—drinking their coffee and smoking their cigarettes, dressed more like guests at a costume party or a come-as-you-are than like a congregation.

The Sunday I went, what made me feel “at church” was the rapt silence, the atmosphere of spiritual seeking. All eyes fastened on the Rev. Donnelly as he talked about Christ having to hang on the cross because of people’s hang ups, or quoted a priest who once asked, “Who can look up at the crucifix and say, ‘All this you have done for me and I don’t care?”

Not many churches could advertise a Sunday service that lasts three or four hours and hope to have anybody come, but that’s the way it is at The Twelfth Gate. Always after The Word comes what they call The Word Shared— something like a bull session, something like old-time Methodist testifying.

When I was there, as soon as Bruce got through with the sermon and the final folk hymn was sung, a girl at a back table said, “I’ve sinned, and I know it, and I’ve asked God’s forgiveness, right? But maybe God is like my father. I respect my father and I love him and I’ve hurt him so much. But I just can’t tell him. I just—-” She struggled for self-control. She had arrived in Atlanta the week be fore from Massachusetts. “I mean he thinks I want some thing—food or clothes or money. What I want is his love and understanding? But he just says you’ve done what, you please—and I have—so don’t come asking me for forgive ness now.”

“I guess your dad has hang ups of his own,” somebody commented.

“I know how you feel—I’d never ask my father’s forgiveness,” said a student type in suit, white shirt and tie. “I’m sure he’d just say go to hell. Let’s face it, parents really suffer when we do wrong, and it would be the right thing to apologize, even if the apology gets thrown in your face. But it’s hard to be glad about doing the right thing if you’re crying.”

“Every time I come here,” a girl near me muttered to her friend, “we get hung-up on forgiveness and the generation gap. No matter what Bruce has talked about.”

THE next speaker was at dashing young pirate. His beard had a sort of Sir Walter Raleigh trim, he wore one gold earring, his long hair was held neatly in place with sun glasses, pushed up from the forehead, and I tried hard not to assume he was a hippie just for looking like one.

“If there is this God that’s so Almighty and can do anything,” he began, “why doesn’t He answer when I ask forgiveness? If I offend her” — he nodded to the girl beside him— “she’ll forgive me the minute I ask her to and then every thing’s all right again. God is a lot greater than she is, but all I get from Him is silence.”

He was answered by a rather small young man with a hearing aid. wire rimmed granny glasses, cowboy boots and a mild manner. He spoke calmly: “What do you expect? Is God supposed to put on a light-show in your brain or send a message fluttering down from Heaven? When you’re not feeling holy, when you’re restless and incomplete, when the day is not beautiful, when somebody smiles and you say. ‘Go away, you bother me,’ that’s what it’s like to be unforgiven and separated from God.

“God to me is love,” he said. “I know I’m forgiven when I feel turned-on to Him, holy, with no hang-ups. It’s just a total sense of peace and relief and release from guilt.”

Not all ministers think a coffeehouse like The Gate is a valid way of reaching out to those not attracted by the established church. Though many in the Methodist clergy are enthusiastic about what Bruce Donnelly is doing, at least a few doubt that it is valid even as an experiment. They think church coffeehouses are a passing fad, like the hippie thing, and too far out from “the true vine” to change any lives.

MAYBE, maybe not. The doubters should go see for themselves.

All I know is that I like the picture of 40 or 50 young people working their hearts out for a dream, most of them without any pay, and then freely giving away thousands of hard-earned dollars in the name of the Lord.

I know I was deeply moved by the folk singers at the Sun day service, impressed by the young minister’s sincerity and positively electrified when that young man told what it’s like to feel holy.

Ink By the Barrel: The Great Speckled Bird

The Bird

The Great Speckled Bird

One of the hazards of starting a newspaper in your home town is that you cannot escape some of the mishaps of your youth. About once a year I get a nice note from Buckhead resident Helen Sterne saying she is enjoying our newspaper, but she always closes with: “It certainly is a lot better than The Great Speckled Bird!”

In the late 1960s Atlanta was no Haight-Ashbury, but long before bankers and lawyers were walking the streets of Midtown, the area along Peachtree between 8th and 14th streets was known as “The Strip.” The sidewalks and alleys were full of long-haired, blue-jeaned, tie-dyed “hippies” offering all kinds of illegal substances and alternative lifestyles. It made today’s Little Five Points look like Phipps Plaza. On any given Friday night, parents would drive us through The Strip on the way back from dinner at the Piedmont Driving Club or Capital City Club, lock the doors and warn us of the dangers of this part of town.

So naturally, with 13-year-old curiosity, we would get up the next morning, tell our parents we were going to play tennis, and sneak out with our Jimi Hendrix T-shirts to “expand our minds” or to try to “find ourselves” amidst the record stores, head shops, and clothing boutiques on The Strip. One of the required souvenirs was to get the latest issue of The Great Speckled Bird. It was full of the latest inside reports on college students going on strike and closing down campuses, about battles with police in the streets of Chicago, about counterculture political parties, civil rights demonstrations, wild concerts, dangerous drugs and a movement older people feared most, a concept foreign to us – something called Free Sex.

One day, I noticed an ad promoting an opportunity to make money: buy 50 copies of The Bird for 15¢ each and sell them for 35¢. My first newspaper entrepreneurial thought stirred. I could get rich! I bought 50 copies and the next day, took 25 to my school, Westminster. I could stimulate intellectual thinking and make a tidy profit. Only one problem: students didn’t want to buy The Bird from a freckly-faced eighth grader.

Next idea: sell them to my neighbors. So I wandered up my street and stopped at the Sterne household. Mrs. Sterne answered the door. As I made my sales pitch, a look of horror crossed her face. She was the matriarch of a household containing her husband, the president of Trust Company Bank, and two Catholic schoolgirls. A household I was threatening to poison with radical, seditious journalism. Trying to fill the silence, I mumbled something about selling them at school. Well, when the story got around, I was selling them for the profit of Westminster.

Two days later, I’m dozing in chemistry lab and the principal walks in, grabs me and says I am being summoned to Dr. Pressly’s office. Dr. Pressly, the school’s founder, was a man who was so polished, so patrician, but so powerful that I must have done something really great to be going to see him.
He asked if I was telling people I was selling The Bird for the benefit of Westminster. I turned bright red and quickly said no. He said some board members had gotten confusing information and were calling him, greatly concerned. Graciously, he let the conversation drop there.

But others didn’t. Apparently, at that very moment my father was at Peachtree Golf Club, involved in a shouting match with a legendary school board member, Mr. Warren, about my disparaging the good name of the school.

All this because I was trying to make 20¢ a copy. I think I sold only about 12 of those papers. I wish I still had the rest. I could probably sell them for a lot more now.

Ink By the Barrel: The Great Speckled Bird

Make Bread sell The Bird

Lifestyles, The Bird

sellbird

  Many people in the hip community made cash by selling the Bird. The Bird deal made it so you couldn’t lose money and could, by selling regularly, make a decent living by hippie standards.

shapeimage_3Birds were mailed to me at Oxford College and I sold them in the cafeteria evenings. It was considered uncool to not pay over the stated price and magnanimously say, “Keep the change!”

Fridays I would race in my slow but steady Celestial Omnibus VW in I-20, up I-75 to the Birdhouse on 14th, to start. If I had money, I’d buy Birds. If not, they would front a few to sell, return and repeat until you had cash to buy Birds to carry wherever to sell.

Weekends I’d try to get 14th and Peachtree where the Uniform company had a lawn shaded by huge trees. People would hang out and talk to you or nap in the shade. The job was to barker Birds. You could walk along the edge of the street holding the latest cover up to see and try to catch the eye of each driver. Acting a bit for the tourists always got money.

It was always a a trip. friday and Saturday nights young, rich hipsters headed to the park would pay not 25 cents, but $5 to the “real” hippie selling Birds. Determined to be wild suburban middle aged couples where the woman wanted to “kiss a real hippie”, you’d let the husband show off by leeringly asking for marijuana by some cool, unknown nickname he had heard who knows where, and ask if it was true it was an aphrodisiac. Or pass you party favors of one style or another to be hidden under the tree until you were ready to leave. You also met a lot of good friendly folks.

Cops would come by and stop. Some decently friendly. Some on power trip staring and trying to make you nervous enough to step in the street and be arrested for “impeding traffic” even if the street was empty.

riotcop
Same cop at the Piedmont Police Riot

My worst experience came on my second day selling at that corner. A really fat young crewcut cop on a tricycle pulled up stopping just inches from my feet. he took his time standing up on the trike and swinging over one ham leg and stepping down. A moment to work that gunbelt around and up to where there should have been a waist. straighten his cap. Then suddenly pull his gun and crouch pointing it at my face a few inches away. I had grown up in a small town and until that very minute I had thought all cops were peace officers just making everyone safe. This cop changed my mind when he said a word aloud I had only seen in print before, and rarely then.

“Come on MotherF__ker! Give me a reason to shoot! Please, you hippie Mother___ker!” he screamed blowing spit like some redneck sheriff caricature in a drive-in movie. His manner, the gun in my face and what he had screamed outloud scared me to death, and it showed. He held the pose oblivious to the horrified faces in cars streaming by. He held it through a  stoplight cycle and a half, as judged by cars stopping. He  laughed cruelly and put up his gun. Chuckling he walked  back and laboriously swung his ham back over the trike’s gas tank. Like any good silly movie, it wouldn’t crank till the third try then sputtered alive.  He charged forward and I had to jump aside as he rode off very pleased with himself.

This was absolutely shocking to me and was a step in radicalizing my view of mindless authority.

One of the best days selling the Bird was before the start of the Second Atlanta Pop Festival. There was no bread to spare at my house so we were not planning to go down to Byron. Then a parade of incredible vehicles of hippies just checking out The Strip before heading down to Byron proceeded down Peachtree. Amazing painted cars and schoolbuses revamped into sculptures on wheels. A sparkling city dump truck with music blasting from inside. The driver laughed, pushed a lever and the tail end rose open like to dump. Inside was furniture, an 8-track blasting and about ten stoned laughing people trying to run up the curved shiny insides.

By dark I raced home and told Gabi to get some stuff and let’s call some people and head down to this party. We’ll just play in the parking lot, we don’t need to get in front of the stage to hear the good music. Anyway there is suppose to be a free stage off in the woods a bit. We packed the Celestial Omnibus and drove through the night to Byron. The expressway was clogged as we got near.

We crossed the median and went back an exit and drove the wrong way down a parallel access road with lights out then turned out through a field towards lots of lights. Soon we had stumbled into the festival past cops trying to turn back the multitudes already peacefully ignoring them. It was worth the trip.

 

And to think that I saw it on Peachtree Street…”

Festivals, history

And to think that I saw it on Peachtree Street…”

©Patrick Edmondson 2012

Friday July 3rd, 1970 I was working the morning traffic selling The Great Speckled Bird at 14th and Peachtree. There was going to be a Pop Festival that weekend in Byron, Ga near Macon. The first Pop Festival had been wonderful, but the normal hot for a Georgia 4th. We knew middle and South Georgia and knew the heat there was much worse. Most people who lived there spent much of the day somewhere shady or in water. This was to again be at a treeless stock car track outside Macon, currently mayored by “Machine Gun” Ronnie Thompson who had issued machine guns to police in fear of Negro uprising. “Machine Gun” Ronnie was a really unsane belligerent Cracker who really hated hippies, making his county the perfect place for a pop festival. We had been tempted by the stories told by friends from the Zoo. They had been down building the site and told us about the free stage set up way out in the woods down newly bulldozed trails. One of them had a homestead even further back in the woods where he had his dog and was sowing some seeds. We looked at the lineup and really wanted to go, but the tickets were too costly for poor student hippies

I had gotten up early to get to the Birdhouse to buy papers and drive up 14th over Peachtree and parked The Omnibus on the corner by Ga Linen where there was a grassy lawn and big tree.  A great spot to work since people would come up and sprawl on the grass under the tree and talk to me.

I was the first hippie cars would encounter driving down Peachtree towards The Strip and I looked the part I had made a belt with silver conchos on a leather strip and leather strings hanging down my leg. I wore it low on my hips over embroidered jeans and engineer boots so the strings swung as I walked. I had made a duck hat, an engineer’s cap with the bill painted yellow. In the front I painted two big white cartoon eyes like Donald Duck. To complete the motif in winter I had a middy blouse from Navy surplus that zipped up tightly under the arm on one side.  Some people knew me simply as that duckhat guy.

Being a bit ‘on stage’ brought more money, so I got into it. It was fun to watch the long strings swing as I walked, danced, clowned along the edge of Peachtree. It was a good corner and I made quite a bit of money each day. Driving around town I always kept a load of Birds in my bus and whenever traffic stalled, I’d pull over and work the traffic until it moved or a cop came to roust me.  I devoted hours to selling Birds, but working 14th and Peachtree was the best. When traffic lulled I could go climb in the Omnibus, pull the curtains and smoke on a joint as traffic roared by outside.  I was just a crazy hippie so many pretended I wasn’t there. It was work, but also fun as I walked along and amused myself in between lights. Somehow some people want to talk to a hippie. Buying a Bird gave them a reason to talk. It was fun to people watch as mini-dramas played out every so often.

I stood at the corner holding The Great Speckled Bird open so people could see the cover.  Some cars would pull up and desperately thrust money at me for a paper as cars behind them played a cacophonous symphony.  Otherwise I waited for the light then walked along the side of the road smiling. Kids almost always bought a Bird and usually gave me at least fifty cents for a 25-cent paper. Folks wanting you to think they were cool, but usually, and sadly obviously, were not, would either overpay and wave you off or demand exact change as traffic honked.  Swingers and narcs tried to buddy talk and ask about obtaining sex and drugs. Closet hip folks would give you a dollar or other big bill and maybe a good joint or some hash for a paper, or as a tip. Girls and gay men flirted and society women were suggestive as they overpaid and were asked if they wanted change. One woman asked if I could get some “Chiba” to smoke then “fuck her like only a hippie could”. I was unsure what either meant and was in love with Gabi.

This Friday before the 4th there was a constant stream of hippies loaded into vehicles. They came from all over in some amazingly colorful and creative vehicles. And they all had the same destination, The Pop Festival.  A band in a van full of equipment just going to play the free stage was very excited. Each car was headed to see favorites, whose music blared from tape decks.  Each one made me feel more that Byron was going to be a scene for real and we needed to be there.

The final was a big cylindrical trash dumptruck from some unknown town.  Totally normal looking except for the drivers were freaks. They laughed and said they were headed for Byron. I said it was a weird vehicle to travel in. They said I didn’t know the half of it and pushed a button. The back lifted up and away as to dump trash. Now I could see a living room set up inside behind a screen.  There was a table and chairs by a pole lamp, a couch, a recliner, sleeping bags and supplies. A huge cloud had come out when the back had opened. Behind a screen, two guys sat rolling joints at the table and smoking. They said they were farmers from Indiana taking their wares to market at Byron. I laughed and they winked and lifted a tarp at the rear so I could see the pile of marijuana buds beneath. I exploded in surreal laughter- a dump dopetruck with its own living room, here on Peachtree.

They handed me a few joints and closed the truck before continuing down Peachtree towards The Strip. I now knew we had to at least go down and enjoy the people and the scene. We might even get to hear some music. Clearly Byron, Ga. was where to spend July 4th 1970.

Gabi worked as the manager of a uniform shop near Emory. She was very good at running the store. I was a student who sold Birds, did odd jobs and silk screening, etc. to make a bit of money. My other responsibility was to be sure we had good dope.  I looked very out of place in the uniform store around the nurses, but began telling her what I had seen and that I was going for supplies because we had to go to the Pop festival.  Soon she was excited and a young nurse was calling her boyfriend wanting to go also.

 

The Castle – Golden Horn

Clubs, Community

http://ethunter1.blogspot.com/2006/08/golden-horn-revisited.html

posterplace

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

SUNDAY, AUGUST 27, 2006

The Golden Horn – Revisited

the castlehorn

 

 

 

 

Photo by Rocky Hunter

This morning we were looking at the pictures on Rocky’s blog he took in and around the High Museum in Atlanta yesterday.

 

When the above house materialized Anna asked wasn’t that where I went to the Beatnik Coffee House when I was a teenager. It took me a second to refocus on it, because the front door and big window have been replaced by a double set of garage doors – but that is it!

 

On March 29, 2006, I wrote a blog entry on our beatnik experience in a coffee house that was there on the sidewalk level of that building and how I almost became a slab of meat in their cooler in 1959 or 1960. Back then it was called “The Golden Horn”

http://www.uer.ca/forum_showthread_archive.asp?threadid=46237

http://www.bloglanta.com/archives/date/2005/12

Is it a house, fort or castle?

Monday, December 5th, 2005

It’s all three, actually, depending on who you ask. Perched atop a hill on Fifteenth Street, just off of Peachtree Street, and facing the Woodruff Arts Center is a strange complex that puzzles each new passerby. Former Mayor Andrew Young referred to it as a “hunk of junk” and was scheduled for demolition in the 1980s until preservationists ultimately saved it. In 1989, it was designated a landmark by the city.

The “hunk of junk” was originally a retirement home for Ferdinand McMillan, Confederate veteran and co-founder of the McMillan & Avery firm, dealers in agricultural machinery. McMillan designed it himself and construction was completed in 1910. Residing with his wife and niece, McMillan dubbed it Fort Peace and lived there until his death in 1920. Viewing the interior of the house during McMillan’s stay would be interesting, but it is the exterior, still mostly intact, that is unique.

Michael Rose, in his book “Atlanta: Then and Now”(I’ve referenced this book before and if you don’t have a copy, put it on your Christmas list) notes that the house reflects the eccentricities of McMillan, built on a solid, two-story Stone Mountain granite base (judging by the capitalization, I assume that the granite for the base may come from Stone Mountain), canon openings and a Chinese turret. The house is built in the Victorian style that characterized mansions and homes in the area (most now gone) of the same period.

McMillan was a friend and one-time neighbor of Joel Chandler Harris, author of the “Uncle Remus” stories. According to atlantaga.gov, two niches in the second story façade and another niche below those contained small marble rabbits, the “Uncle Remus spring,” drinking fountain for pedestrians passing by, and other carved replicas of characters associated with Uncle Remus.

The position of the house allowed McMillan to maintain a large garden. Aside from his interest in gardening, McMillan had a great interest in inventing, according to atlantaga.gov. He reportedly designed one of the region’s first cottonseed oil presses, “the suction system for gins,” as well as the sub-irrigation system for his garden. With all of the unique features, McMillan said his basic intention was “to get as high into the air as I could, and there to build me a country home in the city.”

The surrounding four homes in the area were acquired by the Art Association and eventually demolished in the 1950s and ‘60s as the museum of art complex expanded. McMillan’s dream house remained, was dubbed “The Castle” and was inhabited by the burgeoning artistic community. From the end of World War II through the 1970s, Hazel Butler Roy owned the home and opened it to the artistic community. Various individual artists and performing arts groups rented rooms, lived, worked and played in the house. There was even a restaurant inside called the Carriage Room Restaurant.

Today, the towering skyscrapers of Midtown dwarf the house. Atlantaga.gov reports that AT&T plans to use the house for its Promenade project (I was unable to find specific details on this project after searching the Web. Anyone who knows more, feel free to share.). Aside from the significant architecture, The Castle remains a monument to the early Atlanta artistic community and a reminder of the four Peachtree Street homes demolished to make way for the Woodruff Arts Museum and the newly expanded High Museum of Art that we know and that it now overlooks.

Posted in Looking at the Past | 6 Comments »

kathy thompson Says:

July 7th, 2006 at 10:56 pm

What do you know about a building called “The castle” adjacent to the High Museum? I once lived in the Church’s Home next to it (1966). In 1969 I considered renting the apartment at the top and met the owner. In the end I chickened out since those who rented the studios did not spend nights there. I am saddened that it remailns abondoned.
Dr. Kathleen Thompson
Blue Ridge GA

http://ethunter1.blogspot.com/2006/03/beatniks-and-golden-horn.html

WEDNESDAY, MARCH 29, 2006

Beatniks and The Golden Horn

Back in either 1959 or 1960 my friend Monty called me and wanted to know if I wanted to go to a Beatnik coffee house in Atlanta. “Beatnik coffee house?” I said. I wasn’t keen on going out on a school night when it was going to something I knew nothing about – in some of our misadventures back then when we went to a place we knew nothing about we suddenly had to scatter or suffer some consequences, and I was afraid this might be the case this time, and Atlanta is/was a long way away for a school night.

Neither of us knew anything about beatniks or coffee houses. From TV we figured the males were bearded, wore berets and the females had long straight hair and wore black stockings. In the coffee houses we knew from TV all they did was hang around zonked on opium or espresso coffee and recited beat poetry. The most important lure for us was that we thought the females in their black stockings were all opened minded and all for free love….. which is just what a teenage boy would want.

So Monty, I, and two more friends headed to Atlanta in Month’s mother’s Volvo PV544 on a dark foggy night.

The place we were looking for was The Golden Horn on 15th Street. We found it without any problem. The Golden Horn was located on the street level floor of an granite building that was a three story apartment building, each level above street level had a porch or patio. It was across the street from the High Museum which was also known as the Atlanta Art Museum. The museum was facing Peachtree Street, but the side of it was along side 15th Street.

Monty parked the car down the street about a block, you never know if what might happen that we would have to leave suddenly.

We went in. To the left was a table full of tasty looking cakes, and behind that was a bar that did the serving of beverages. A lean lady with long black hair and black stockings came up and asked us did we want a seat and we said we did. Yep, she was just what we expected.

The room was not that large. Maybe 10 or 15 tables in a dim lit room. On the far end was a small low stage. We sat down and expected someone to come out on stage and play some bongo drums or maybe recite poetry, or whatever beatniks do.

The people at the other tables seemed quiet, chatting among themselves. I would guess they were college students, Georgia Tech was only a few blocks away.

The dame with the long black straight hair and black stockings asked what did want and we said coffee. This is a coffee house – right? She brought back four coffees and our bill.

A man in white skin tight leotards and a unicorn head climb up on stage and music was played… it was flute music. The man with the unicorn head starting lightly dancing, at times it was like a ballet because he would leap and tip toe and piloret…. all this to classical flute music.

We were not music appreciators by any means. Any thing musical we like was on the top 40 radio stations. Our minds had not yet matured to appreciate good music or interpretive dancing.

Monty would later become a disc jockey.

Our whispering conversation went something like this: “Good god! We came all way down here to see this shit?”

“Is this a queer joint?”

“No, there is a couple of girls here.”

“How much is the bill? Lets pay and get the hell out of here!”

“Damn! It is sixteen dollars!”

“Sixteen dollars?”

“yes – that coffee must cost $4 a cup.”

“Shit! Now what?”

The thing is, we didn’t have $16 between us. We had something like $3 and some change.

So, we made plans. While we were whispering making our plans the woman brought another round of coffees and added it to the bill.

The table with the cakes were on a table, just a leap from the front door. We decided we would get up and stand over the cakes as if we were planning on which cake to pick out and run out the door the first chance we got.

All four of us got up, went over to the table and stood there looking at the cakes. The wench with the long straight hair came up to watch us. To make it look like we were dead serious on picking out a cake I put my hand out, finger extended and said, “Hmmm Lets see….”

She interrupted me by putting a sharp butcher knife up to my face and say, “Touch a cake and off goes your finger honey!”

I let out a nervous laugh.

The bitch said, “You think I’m joking!” and jabbed the knife in midair within inches of my stomach. I backed up.

She jabbed at me again and I backed up some more….. how in the heck did I find myself in this mess? I thought.

About that time the door slammed and we both looked at the door. We could see my three friends heads bobble by the window as they were running.

Now she was mad. She jabbed again and I turned around and ran. Somehow to get away from her knife tricks I found myself on the stage with the unicorn, then she joined us. People in the audience were laughing. I jumped off the stage with her behind me swiping at me.

This time the door was in front of me and she was in the back of me. I opened the door and ran out and ran down towards the car, but I was running scared and caught up with them before they reached it.

We all had a good laugh when I told them what happened and we all climbed into the car. Monty said, “I lost my wallet.”

“What did you do with it?”

“I had it out when we were counting our money. I must have dropped it on the floor.”

“Let it go, the dollar you had in there isn’t worth it.”

“I an’t leaving without my wallet. My phony driving license is in there, do you know how long it took me to draw the Seal of Georgia on that thing?”

Me: “I’m not going back in there for anything.”

We agreed the other three would go back in and demand the wallet back and I would be out side with the Volvo running, and as soon as they ran out they would hop in and away we would go – back home.

They went in and I sat in the drivers seat with the engine running, one foot on the clutch and the other foot ready to stomp down on the gas. I was the get-away driver.

They ran out laughing. Monty had his wallet, which he put in his back pocket.

“How did you get it?” I asked.

As a last second inspiration, Monty and his two companions when they entered The Golden Horn fell down to their knees and began crawling all over the room squealing like pigs. Everybody cracked up laughing, even the witch with the long straight hair and butcher knife. While crawling, Monty made a straight line to the table we were at and saw his wallet on the floor and snatched it up.

Alls wells that ends well.