Free My Beautiful Hippie by Janet Nichols Lynch

did
it
. What did it feel like? Did she like it? Love it? Couldn’t get enough? I’d never know. Denise wasn’t one to talk about such things.
    I was embarrassed to think such thoughts and avoided looking at Jerry when I returned to the living room. I picked up the
Time
magazine with the Generation Gap cover and retreated to the corner of the room. I didn’t have to read an article to know that my parents’ generation and my generation were like two alien nations who didn’t speak the same language but shared the same planet. I just wanted to go home and get my itchy skirt and tight girdle off.
    In the car, Mom commented on Denise cluttering up her counter with her mushroom-patterned flour, sugar, and tea canister set instead of keeping them in the cupboard. “And she’ll soon realize doing up a tablecloth and napkins is just too much work.”
    â€œThe lasagna was great,” said Dan.
    Mother patted her bosom with the heel of her fist. “I just hope I don’t get heartburn from all those onions in the sauce.”
    â€œCoffee was good,” said Dad. “Plenty strong.”
    Mother glared over at him. “I suppose mine is too weak.”
    Suddenly we realized the trouble Mom was in and rushed to her defense.
    â€œYour spaghetti sauce is a lot better,” said Dan.
    â€œAnd the lasagna was too salty,” said Dad.
    â€œNot salty enough,” I said.
    â€œAnd the cake was obviously from a mix,” said Dad. “Can’t beat your cakes from scratch, dear.”
    â€œAnd that tablecloth was ostentatious,” I said.
    â€œAustin who?” asked Dad. He liked to be funny like that.
    â€œNow, now, don’t you all be so hard on Denise,” said Momwith a prim smile. “Setting up housekeeping isn’t easy. She’ll find her way. And she and Jerry seem
very
happy.”
    â€œThat’s all that matters,” said Dad.
    Mom nodded but couldn’t resist having the last say. “That husband of hers needs a haircut if he ever expects the professional world to take him seriously.”

Chapter
Seven

    Whenever I wanted to do something I knew my mother wouldn’t allow, I quietly bought or collected the materials and waited for her to leave the house. One afternoon when she was at her garden club luncheon, I went out into the backyard to tie-dye a T-shirt, following the directions I found in
Teen
magazine. I had bought a plain white Fruit of the Loom small men’s T-shirt, which I wadded up in sections and secured with rubber bands. Then I put another rubber band a little farther up on each clump. Next I mixed up packages of yellow, red, and violet Rit dye and put each color in a spray bottle. I sprayed the different colors over each part of the T-shirt that was sectioned off by the rubber bands. Finally I cut the rubber bands, and out came groovy sunbursts of color all over the T-shirt. It was really fun and easy, and I was proud of my creation.
    Just as I was hanging it up on the clothesline to dry, Mom appeared at the French doors, home from her luncheon. She crossed her arms and yelled, “You can’t be trusted home alone for two little hours, Joanne. If you think you’re going out in public in hippie clothes, you’ve got another thing coming.”
    When she went back into the house, I smiled to myself. I’d gotten my tie-dye T-shirt, and she couldn’t stop me from wearing it.
    * * *
    Two days later when Mom went to Safeway for her week’s grocery shopping, I put on my tie-dye T-shirt, my bell-bottoms, sandals, love beads, and peace button. All the cool girls were buying their Levi’s in the men’s department because they didn’t make jeans for girls that rode on the hips. Of course my mother wouldn’t let me do this, but no one knew that beneath my tie-dye T-shirt the waistband of my homemade bell-bottoms hit me two inches above my belly button. I had washed my long, brown hair