“Oh, when I look back now
That summer seemed to last forever
And if I had the choice
Yeah, I'd always wanna be there
Those were the best days of my life
Back in the summer of '69”
– Excerpt from “Summer Of '69” by Bryan Adams
When I think about the summer of '69, I feel mixed emotions. Our senior class had just graduated. We had taken our Senior Trip to Washington, D.C. and experienced our last wild and crazy time together. The finality really hit home – the Valley Class of 1969 had become alumni seemingly overnight. I was elated but also very sad to see the end of our time together.
High school had been the greatest experience in my life. I had served as president of my class, had played football and baseball, and had thoroughly enjoyed seeing scores of my friends each day. For me, skipping school was out of the question. School meant friends and good fun. I was having a blast.
Our class also clowned and cruised most every night, getting into our share of the joys of maturation – such as decoding the mysteries of the opposite sex and pushing our parents' nerves with our goofy, often annoying behaviors. We were occupied with acting out our first tastes of freedom – happy and carefree, we did a lot of this “acting out,” too.
The unofficial class motto was “Sin, sex, beer, and wine. We're the class of '69.” Later in life I thought how non-descriptive of our class this foolish rhyme truly was. It was just juvenile bravado. But, back then, we were brash and full of ourselves. Mea culpa to our younger classmates, but we were damned proud to be the last class of the '60s … and besides, many of them were complicit in our questionable behaviors. They were our “little brothers and sisters” in crime.
We, the baby boomers, felt validated by social changes being made at the time. However the assassinations of JFK, Bobbie, and MLK had also shaped the soul of our class. The Vietnam War was still raging, and classmates faced the draft. Civil rights protests were at the fore. It was both an exciting and an apprehensive time to grow up.
Yet, to be honest, Lucasville – our home town – and Valley – our high school – was what consumed us then. In our safe, rural environment, we were insulated from much of the country's angst, protest, and rapid change. We were immersed in who was dating whom, where the party was being held, and what school we faced the next ballgame.
We had a full plate just squeezing every drop of life from each waking hour. We lived life during that beautiful season fairly oblivious to world news and political unrest. Yes, '69 was the summer of Woodstock, the moon landing, racial upheavals, Vietnam, and Charles Manson. And, no, as 17 and 18-year-olds just stepping foot into the world, we did not realize the importance these events would play in our soon-to-be independent lives. Looking back, that is rather sad to say, but it is really true. It is a cause of some lingering guilt.
To say our class was close-knit is an understatement. So was our community. And, as I look back today, I recognize the importance of the tremendous care provided by those in that community – adults in our school, in our local businesses, in our churches, and in our homes really watched over us, not only making us toe the line but also providing guidance while chaperoning us into maturity. Their patience was truly monumental.
Management at Lake Margaret: the Scioto Breeze Drive-In; Wagners and Harwoods and Rockwells service stations; the Lucas and Maple and RRD restaurants; the Valley Swim Club – just to name a few, seemed to even encourage our loitering and boisterous behaviors. They made us feel wanted and important.
We hung out at these local gas stations, restaurants, drive-ins, teen dance halls, nearby lakes, rivers, state forests, the softball fields, Sand Mines, and even bars that featured legal 3.2 beer for our rambunctious (and sometimes reckless) 18-year-old palates. I'm not proud of all the behavior, but I must say we did a pretty good job of self-regulating any trouble. (Caveat: Please, please understand how drinking and driving and other irresponsible behaviors broke hearts and ruined lives – I am ashamed of my participation in risky behaviors. Do not do these things.)
Life to an 18-year-old in 1969 was instantaneous, novel and vivid in every respect. Even though we lived in a small town, we never lacked for entertainment and we never lacked for friendship. I guess you could say my idea of being “worldly” meant being in a group of friends and taking care of each other. My “world” was within a ten-mile radius of Southern Ohio. Our class did so much together that many of us became inseparable.
How fortunate I was. I drove a great car my cousin had repaired from a wreck – a 1965 289 Hypo Mustang convertible – and in '69, I was dating pretty regularly for the first time in my life. My entire life revolved around youthful and popular ideas, and that immediacy lent a feeling of importance to my life. Our music, our fashion, our beliefs – all found acceptance in these changing times.
The money I earned working then went a long way. Jobs during that time included working at the local lake, at a car wash, and at a service station. Gas was cheap – 34 cents a gallon. Life was good. Seasonal and part-time jobs with pay of $1.00 an hour put plenty of money in my pocket since I had no rent or utilities while living at home. Back then a date – movie tickets at less than $1.50, meals with a double-decker burger for $1.00 – was pretty inexpensive. As the song says, "Summertime, and the livin' is easy."
I think I met more girls
that summer than at any other time in my life. I'm not saying I knew
what to say or how to act around them, but I was a pretty quick
learner. And, John Mellancamp had it right … “Let me give you
some good advice young man
You better learn to play guitar.” Our
small town band was a “gas, gas, gas.” Three chords “sounding
close” with cover songs was perfectly acceptable.
Our class became as independent as dependent people could be that summer. As long as we didn't cause trouble, people left us alone to mature and find ourselves in our community. There seemed to be more slack in the rope that held us to formal institutions and old ideals. I don't know if the freedom was due to the reality that young people were dying in Vietnam or because of the turbulent times.
In the summer of 1969, I also helped my brother move to Ohio away from the searing heat and boiling racial tensions of Gulfport, Mississippi. I lived with him for a time before the move, and I will never forget the experience of being in the Deep South during segregation: that experience made a lasting impact on me. The de facto racism in Ohio was still bad at the time, but not nearly as oppressive as the climate in Mississippi.
Also in the summer of '69, my brief musical career as a guitarist in a local rock band ended because the band was relocating to Newark, Ohio. I really loved playing clubs, and I hated to make my decision, but I decided to stay in Lucasville, Ohio, to prepare for college the next fall. The band left and I never played in public again.
My draft number was 104, which meant either go to college with a deferment or be drafted at once, most likely followed by a tour in Vietnam. Some of my friends were already on their way to Southeast Asia, so I felt some obligation to serve. However, my parents urged me to take the college deferment and get a degree.
I had made the All Southern Ohio Conference Team as a defensive end in 1968, but I had turned down offers to play football on the small college level. So, I knew I was going to college at Ohio University Branch in Portsmouth, Ohio, but I had no idea of a college major, just a slight interest in journalism. I had been in college prep in high school, so I was merely following the prescribed course of action – completely clueless and directionless.
Soon, I was to find out how different college was from high school and how much more difficult attending college was to become. Friends had scattered and now education became simply going to class – a routine of studying or failing.
Of course, my adjustment to the real world was fraught with pitfalls and foolish decisions. What a wake-up being “answerable” was to this guy. Gone was the safety net provided in my younger years. My classmates and I faced a new, adult world of responsibility, and damn it, that existence was immediately difficult, unlike learning within the cozy comforts of our high school.
The summer of 1969 passed too quickly. All the new yearnings, excitement, experiences, playfulness, and psychedelic significance faded as summer turned to fall. The landscape around me seemed to become alien. My last summer of simple content had disappeared forever, never to be recaptured. This time, summer vacation had really come to an end.
Today, the vivid imagery of the summer of '69 remains indelible in my memory. The time was magical and so transitional. Now, at the age of 69, I can say that summer was perhaps the biggest watershed in my life. I think about how choosing another path that summer may have changed the entire direction of my life – choosing instead to go out of town with the band, to let the draft take me into the service, to go to a small college and play football.
I wound up with a degree in education, a teaching career, two marriages, and four children. I still live in the area – always have. I love my life, my family, and my home. And, to say I love my Valley High Class of 1969 would be such an understatement. If they had not given me the opportunity to be their friends, to gain their confidence, and to simple love one another, I cannot imagine being happy today. God, I hope they all realize how much I am indebted to them and how much they helped me become myself.
Note: This is a major revision of a blog entry titled “Summer of '69” from April 4, 2009.
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