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Raising hippies
Without that one farmer you have no Woodstock Nation.
Imagine how ironic it was for us to have found that an entire commune of hippies is now living in our upper cornfield. We haven't seen them, but we know they're there.
It all started when our black dog ran into the tall corn the other day and returned wearing a bandana.
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My main worry about having a flock of tie-dyed, drug-addled freeloaders camping in my cornfield is not possible damage to the crop, but to themselves. In a few weeks the chopper will be by (sit down, Fonda fans, I'm not talking motorcycle). Every square inch of the corn from the stalk to the silk will be ground into silage.
I've yet to hear a single downloadable ring tone, so I've surmised that these are not kids, mimicking fashion, but the originals, those who never gave up the hope of a new utopia.
After four decades, they're still alive and living for the moment in our cornfield.
The '60s generation is now mostly in their 60s. Sleeping under the stars, living in the mud, sharing food, water and communicable diseases is a young person's game.
I'm certain that once the chopper makes its rounds one of the old fools communing in the corn, flashing the peace sign and cursing Nixon, won't be quick enough to escape. He'll hobble along, like Joe Cocker, until "Moonflower" and "Stardust", his friends since the Summer of Love, leave him and his truss behind.
And then, he'll be silage.
They'll feed him to the cows.
Soon, your milk will smell of patchouli.
I guess the safe thing is to lure them out of the field, like deer, and put them out of their misery. That's why this morning my wife and I left small bowls of granola, the collected writings of Abby Hoffman and tubes of Preparation-H scattered about the farm.
I know they say that (like barn cats) once you feed them, you might as well call them your own, but what are we supposed to do? They're God's creatures. Someone has to care for them, although I've already made it clear that we cannot keep them.
If all works as we've planned, we'll be able to put them all in a VW bus and send them back to Max. If he's still alive and still owns that farm, he'll know what to do with them.
Film them.
Print t-shirts.
Finally cash in.
To hear Scott Paulsen's column, visit www.observer-reporter.com. He can be heard each weekday afternoon from 3-7 p.m. on 1250 ESPN Radio.
