The Drogstore Cafe in the Haight Ashbury, Early 68
I found myself in the Haight Ashbury after the February riots in 1968. I was floating from house to house, commune to commune while I tried to sort out my life at that point.
Often, I would find myself having to sleep out in the park or on the streets. I would sometimes get into garage spaces and doss out for safety's sake. Usually, I would be up early in the morning and get out of the garage space early on... one morning that didn't happen, I was awoken at about 5:00 by the car starting up that I was sleeping in front of. As it pulled out of the garage, the driver (a man) saw me sleeping there and he sat there revving his engine. I laid still pretending I was still asleep and after he left, I decided no more sleeping in the garages! Close call!
It wasn't a great time. The hopes and dreams that had poured out of and into Haight Ashbury were fast disappearing. The tenor of San Francisco especially the Haight was a low rumble of violence and bad drug deals going down. The San Francisco Oracle had published their famous what was to be their last edition (the 12th) featuring the illustration of a young couple with a Molotov cocktail… so telling. If anything, that illustration was prescient, over the next few years you would see popular uprisings in San Francisco, Berkeley, Los Angeles and other cities across the USA.
I was looking for something and I couldn't really figure it out. Truly it was at a turning point in my life. It seemed like it was one of those make it or break it moments. Of course, being 16 years old all is drama…
As not to impose on my various host around the Haight, I would often wander the streets until quite late. One evening I found myself drifting down to the corner of Haight & Ashbury. It was the location of the Drogstore, a small coffee shop cafe that featured music and other entertainments during the evening. I cruised by noticing that the place wasn't very full and made my way down the street for a few blocks looking for friends who might be out as well.
None of my friends were around so I slowly turned around and headed back up Haight Street towards the cafe. I had enough money from busking and panhandling to get an espresso and sit back for a while. I was hoping for some music as well.
It was one of those very foggy San Francisco evenings where one could hardly see more than a block or two away as the fog rolled in from the Pacific. In all truth it was beautiful but eerie. As I approached the Cafe, I saw a small crowd gathered at the corner in front of the Drogstore’s entrance. The fog swirled around them. As I approached, 4, maybe 5 women separated out of the group and walked up to me. This where we find our story veers into the weird…
They started speaking: “You must come inside! You have to hear Charlie play and sing!” As they spoke all I could see in front of me was darkness. Absolute darkness. It was like a surging tide washing over me. I was freaked out by it so much I headed back to where I was staying. Coffee was off the menu.
The encounter shook me. Their faces were indelibly marked in my consciousness, I took it as a sign to leave San Francisco. I headed to Big Sur. You can read about it here: Lime Kiln Creek
…. And into the Future:
Early Summer, 1969
I took to visiting acquaintances at a camping commune deep in the Siskiyous near one of the many headwaters of the mighty Sacramento River. Jim’s Camp as it was called. Jim was about 36-37 at that time, which for me seemed ancient. Ex Marine, a Beat from North Beach that had become fond of the Hippie Tribes in San Francisco. Being concerned about the turn of events in the City, he had headed north, with his people in tow.
I liked Jim, the camp was impeccably clean, and everyone was very sweet. I would pop in every so often to see him and others. Jim was always philosophizing and could hold a great conversation at the drop of a hat. He stood about 6’4'“, with a long ponytail, and he seemed in immaculate health. His tribe loved him, and he welcomed in new people to the group with a generous heart.
Which… leads me to this. A young couple arrived in the camp, I met them briefly a couple of times, and honestly, they raised the hackles on my neck. Creepy vibes as the saying goes. The guy was extremely nervous, in fact his name was “Rabbit” which fit him to a tee. His companion was a wisp of a woman… I didn’t catch her name at that point. I decided to give them a wide berth and stayed away from the commune for a couple of weeks.
When I returned to the commune, the couple was gone. “What happened?” I asked Jim. “Those creeps? I told them to leave. They were bad vibing everyone. That Rabbit fellow with his constant nervous stuff and that girl Squeaky always pushing for group sex and other stuff all of the time…. all she could talk about besides her usual was this guy down south who was the second coming as far as she was concerned”.
First Summation:
So, as you have probably worked out, I am talking about my two encounters with The Manson “Family”. When the arrest occurred in late 1969, with the attending press/trial, I realized that the women I had met in front of the Drogstore on the corner of Haight/Ashbury were Manson’s followers. I recognized Susan Aikins, Patricia Krenwinkel & Leslie Van Houten … I didn’t recognize the others that were there. The name “Charlie” became quite clear to me as well with all of the news coverage. Years later, I heard that Rabbit had been killed on Manson’s orders and was buried in the San Gabriel mountains.
Jim’s Camp stayed open until the fall of that year and the changing of the weather. Jim reopened it the next summer, and in the fall closed it up for good. They left the land in immaculate condition. I last saw him in 1971 just before he headed north.
Second Summation:
September 5th, 1975
Recovering from a night of it celebrating my 24th birthday, I was in bed at the Westwood Flat that I shared with my dear friend Michael. I turned on the TV, and as the news popped up, I shouted “Squeaky!” as the video of her pointing a 1911 colt at Gerald Ford popped up on the screen. It was a moment of truly high weirdness. I had only seen her a couple of times at the Camp, but there she was on the national news. All the strange memories of 1968-69 welled up in my head. It took a couple of days to shake it off.
Coda:
Here I write, all those years later, and I can see Jim and others pretty clearly in my mind’s eye. Others of course not so much. Some of it is hazy, so many memories. I grieved for the death of The Haight, and the time period. It was a time of possibility and the event horizon seemed wide open. Yet, good stuff came out it, and it still reverberates across the societal spectrum. Perhaps just echoing now, as new movements have emerged. There was a moment, when all the future was bright.
Pax,
Gwyllm
The Cover of the last edition of The Oracle
A favourite from that time. I have stories!
If you are so inclined:
Also, thank you for the music and memories.
Being several years younger, and more timid than wise, I spent 1968-69 trying to figure out the Anti-War movement on the UW-Madison campus. My family attended church at St. Francis House on the edge of campus and that is where I was introduced to the counter-culture, which I embraced in 1971. I still look back at that time with mixed joy and sadness. Like you I saw great hope, and later great confusion. Jerry Rubin became a commodity broker and Abby Hoffman took his life in dispair.