Free My Beautiful Hippie by Janet Nichols Lynch Page A

over and over so that it was straight and flyaway. I applied colorless lip gloss, blusher, and a hint of mascara on individual lashes so it all looked natural. Then I went roaming around the neighborhood looking for Martin.
    I found him on Hippie Hill, a sloping, broad meadow in Golden Gate Park, not far from the Stanyan Street entrance, bordered on two sides with eucalyptus. Dozens of flower children were sitting in clusters, lying back sunning themselves, rapping, and smoking weed. It would not seem odd or forward for me to join any of these groups, even if I didn’t know a single person among them.
    Martin was sitting off alone, playing his guitar. He paused in his singing to smile up at me and say, “Peace.” He seemed happy to see me.
    I sat cross-legged opposite him. “Go on. I want to hear the rest of the song.” It was one I’d never heard before, about revolving things: windmills, carousels, wheels, and the earth. When he finished, I clapped. “That’s beautiful! Who recorded it?”
    â€œNo one. I wrote it.”
    â€œWow! You should record it. You could be as famous as Gus.”
    He laughed. “I don’t want to be famous.”
    â€œWhat? Everyone wants to be famous!”
    â€œWhy?”
    That simple question stumped me for a moment. For recognition. For acceptance. To prove to your family and the people you knew that you were a somebody. To prove to yourself that you were good at something. “Well, I want to be famous.”
    â€œThen that’s how we’re different, Joni.”
    His words stung. I didn’t want Martin and me to have anydifferences. I felt ashamed, like I was an egomaniac just because I wished for success. “Well, then, what do you want to do with your life?”
    â€œDo with it?” He blinked incredulously. “Why, live it!”
    â€œBut what do you want to accomplish?”
    â€œNot a blessed thing. Ambition destroys lives.”
    â€œNot in the arts.”
    â€œOf course in the arts!” His brow creased in agitation. “Believe me, I know what I’m talking about. Max is a playwright, and Vivian is a sculptor.”
    â€œDid Max ever get anything produced on Broadway?”
    â€œMaybe off-off-
off
-Broadway. He just writes gibberish.”
    â€œDo you mean theater of the absurd?”
    â€œNo, I mean gibberish.”
    â€œCome on, Martin. Everyone wants to achieve something.”
    He straightened his spine and struck his chest, proclaiming, “Then I shall become a master liver of life!” We laughed together, and I was relieved that things had lightened up. He gave me an appreciative look. “That’s a groovy shirt.”
    â€œOh, thanks. I made it!”
    â€œYou look good in it.” He extended his guitar toward me. “Here. If you’re gonna be famous, you better practice. Play me something.”
    I shrank away. “Oh, I just sing and play the guitar for fun. Classical piano is what I work at.”
    â€œAnd it’s not fun?”
    â€œI love it. It’s my life, but I wouldn’t call it fun. Hmm . . . fulfilling, I guess.”
    â€œHeavy.” He set his guitar in my lap. “Let’s see what you can do with this.”
    I thought of Candy mocking my performance at Denise’s wedding. “This girl in my school says I sound like a mosquito and a bullfrog.”
    â€œYou must have a hell of a range.”
    That made me laugh. I wasn’t at all nervous playing for Martin. I began a simple bass-chord-chord accompaniment patternleading into “Little Boxes.” It’s about how houses all look the same, and the people in the houses are all the same, too, going to college, golfing, and drinking their martinis dry. As I played and sang, I looked into Martin’s eyes. They crinkled at the corners when Malvina Reynolds’s clever lyrics amused him.
    â€œYou are, too, good! I can tell you feel music deep