My Own Summer Of Love

Much as been written of late about the legendary summer of 1967.

How much was packed in to that magical moment 40 years ago? More than you may recall. There was the explosion of the hippie counter-culture, the emergence of the new national youth-magnet that was Haight-Ashbury, San Francisco’s “Summer of Love,” the release of the Beatle’s “Sgt. Pepper’s” album, and the gathering momentum of the Vietnam anti-war movement.

And to top it all off, my team, the Boston Red Sox, went from last to first and won the American League pennant.

It was a monumental summer indeed, and I was right in the thick of it all.
For an 11-year-old, anyway.

Most of my early counter-culture experience was gained through simply watching my older brother, who was 17 that summer. He had long hair, wore only jeans, T-shirts and “Jesus” sandals, and was teaching himself the guitar. Naturally. (In fairness, he did stay with the guitar, and is quite good at it even today.) I remember one hot Saturday afternoon that summer when my brother, new driver’s license tucked proudly into his macramé (or-whatever-the-hell-it was made of) wallet, took me on his first solo driving errand.

He was buying some new jeans and denim work-shirts, the erstwhile uniform of the well-dressed teen at that time. We drove into Cambridge, to Harvard Square, and a long-gone store called the Lodge. The square and the store were teeming with long-haired young rebels-with-whatever-causes they could find. I wandered around the store, trying on jean jackets, woven ponchos and granny glasses, and admiring my young hippie self in the mirror. A big, bearded guy in overalls walked by me and flashed the peace sign. “Peace, little brother.” I returned the gesture. I was happening.

I was also in love.

Her name was Jill Ronan. She was several years older than me, a friend of my older sister’s. Jill had no idea of my deep feelings for her. In fact, I am not sure she ever said anything to me. I did my best to impress her and look sexy and older than I was. Which is a real challenge when your wheels are a 3-speed Schwinn with a blue banana seat, your voice is changing, and you have to be home when the street lights come on.

Nearly every night after supper, I would hop on that bike, pedal the three blocks to her street and ride back and forth, back and forth, hoping against hope I would see her walk in or out. Once, I actually did see her come out and I almost fell off my bike before pedaling the other way. I did have a brief conversation once with her father, though. Opening his garage door one night, he said, “Hey, kid -- do you live on this street?” I shook my head. What was I going to say, “No, but I’m stalking your daughter?”

Fortunately, there was more requited excitement for me on the radio.

My beloved Red Sox, dead-last place finishers only the summer before, were in a 4-way dogfight for the pennant. Jill Ronan might be playing hard-to-get, but Yaz, Boomer, Jim Lonborg and Reggie Smith shared the joy with me, even from afar. As the “Impossible Dream” season took real and dramatic shape over that summer, I was as hooked on that team as I was on Jill -- my other impossible dream.

And the rest, alas, is history.

The Sox lost the World Series in seven games, and who knew then that our hopeful “wait till next year” would mean waiting another full 37 years?

Jill moved away, without our ever having had so much as a conversation. I blame it all on the bike. I truly believe a 10-speed might have altered the whole equation.

Now, 40 years later, there are some interesting parallels with that summer. Another senseless war is dragging on, and another deluded president dithers while kids die. The Red Sox are winning, with a 10-game lead, no less -- an unimaginable luxury in 1967, when they needed the last game of the season and help from the Angels (California) to clinch.

And I still ride my bike when I can. It has 18-speeds.
What do you think of that, Jill Ronan, wherever you are?