After being awoken in the wee hours of the morning on my day off, and not being able to go back to sleep, I started thinking.
My mind wandered along its usual tracks of different random thoughts, that, from an outsiders perspective would not seem linked, but somehow, only to me they are.
For some reason, not known even to myself, I found myself thinking over a memory that I had almost forgot existed.
I'm in the back seat of our neighbors car, probably on my way home from school, and I'm listening to his son, also my friend, Rowan, whingeing about his bed time. He was trying every trick in the book to get it changed from 830pm to 9pm.
At the time we would have been about eight or nine years old, and obviously our mental capacity for intelligence hadn't reached its peak. Not that mine has now, and I can’t speak on Rowans behalf in this matter.
I listened avidly as he attempted to negotiate this apparently important bit of child rearing discipline.
I had never had a bed time, I went to bed when I was tired, or there was nothing left to do, or I got bored of playing what ever game is was playing, or the pitch black darkness hindered me.
My father had never believed in bed times, more content with raising me with books, the countryside and a vivid imagination. If I was tired in the morning, I should have considered that before I decided to read an entire 500page book in bed.
Musing on this as I listened to Rowan's voice increase in volume and pitch, as he began loosing the argument to the Greater Power that was his dad, I decided that I might as well join in on this conversation.
Looking intently at the photo of my neighbor’s guru, Sai Baba, which hung on a string of beads from the rear view mirror, I announced that "I don't have a bed time, my dad lets me stay up as late as I like."
There was silence in the car for a few moments, as Rowan stared incredulously at me, mouth slightly open, confusion tying his eyebrows together.
After considering this new piece of information, Rowan turned to his dad, and said with an affronted tone "See dad! Even hippies don't have a bed time!"
I was stunned. I was shell hocked. I was apparently a hippy. I had not been aware of this.
I thought about all the possible things that could have possibly turned me into a hippy.
It definitely wasn't the tie dyes, velvet, bare feet, psychedelic drugs or revolutionary rock n roll, because I was not yet aware of any of these things. And I'm pretty sure wasn't one either. He fought in the Vietnam War, so I doubt very much at any stage was he a hippie.
My dad picked me up from Rowans driveway, and I worried myself with this enlightenment of being a hippie the rest of the way home.
When we reached our house, which admittedly was an old Bedford bus, which some might say was rather hippyish, I turned to my dear old dad and announced "Rowan said we are hippies. Is this true?"
When we reached our house, which admittedly was an old Bedford bus, which some might say was rather hippyish, I turned to my dear old dad and announced "Rowan said we are hippies. Is this true?"
Dad thought about this for a minute and then replied with: "Well, Rowans dad wears a sarong and flowing orange shirts, and has bare feet all the time, that family doesn't eat meat or have any dairy food, they worship some fat bloke called Sai Baba, they go to meditation circles with a bunch of other wombles, they have heaps of tambourines in their house and they listen to strange music that sounds like a Sheila crying..."
I listened to all of this intently, trying to work out where he was going with this. Either Rowans dad was gay or something else was up.
Dad carried on "Now, I wear jeans, boots and a cow boy hat, you eat meat, we are not religious in any way, there are saddles and bridles all over the joint, and we listen to country and western. No kid, we're not hippies. We're cowboys."
And for ages after, I truly believed that.
