Change has a way of passing slowly through a small Pennsylvania town, like an old man window shopping on a Sunday afternoon. As in previous years, the summer of 1967 rolled in with little in the way of fanfare. There were however, some visible changes in my life that year. I was still working at my friend’s father’s shop. I was doing well there after being there a couple of years. I had actually managed to save up enough money to trade in the ‘61 Impala on a brand new 1967 Pontiac GTO, or ‘goat‘ as they are commonly called. A red convertible, with white bucket seats and matching white rag top. It was my first ‘67 Goat and started a love affair with that car that is still with me today. I used to talk about that car so much that my friends actually started calling me ‘67 Goat. That is how I got the nickname. The other fairly visible change in my life was that I was no longer going out with Debbie. It was an amicable split and one that would start a new chapter in my life.

As much as the world seemed to be changing in the sixties, you really couldn’t tell by looking around Main Street. The soda fountain on the corner and Old Man Jones’ hardware store sure looked the same to me. Yet there were changes brewing. We saw it on TV. The hippie movement, the war in Vietnam. Yet, it seemed the only way it really affected small town Pennsylvania was when someone’s son got sent home in a box.

The sixties were a fascinating time to be young and curious. If there was an apt description of my friends and myself it would be young and curious. I had a couple of good friends I used to hang out with who shared my curiosity and my taste in music. It was a time when rock groups like The Who and the Jimi Hendrix Experience were just breaking out. That summer of ‘67 was the so called ‘Summer Of Love.’ The more mellow British Invasion groups were starting to be replaced by heavy psychedelic rock on the air waves. That June in ‘67 marked the Monterey Pop Festival where Jimi Hendrix made his debut in a drug induced spectacle of pyrotechnics. A few short years ago, The Beatle’s wanted to hold your hand. Now the Rolling Stones were singing ‘Let’s Spend The Night Together.’ It seemed the world was changing fast and my friends and I were starting to think it was passing this town by.

One evening in July, I was sitting at a table drinking beer with two buddies of mine. My friend James was a fellow car nut. He was working on an old ‘32 Ford coupe with a flathead V-8. Actually, he’d been working on it for as long as I can remember. My other friend Chris was a film student. He was the only guy I knew who didn’t have a car, but he spent all his money on a Bolex H-16 movie camera. I think he had dreams of becoming a big time Hollywood director or something. All I knew is he was going to film school out in Philly. As we sat around getting drunker by the hour, the conversation turned to events in the news. On the table was the July 7, 1967 issue of Time magazine. The cover story was entitled “The Hippies: The Philosophy of a Subculture.” After a few more brews, Chris began to speak.

“I would really like to go out to San Francisco and film the stuff going on. You know, the whole hippie thing.” He began, “It would make a great film.”

James and I sat silently for a while. I didn’t have to look at him or hear him speak to know what he was thinking. He was the impulsive type who would probably jump at the idea. I was a bit more conservative, having never really been away from home.

“How would you even get out there?” I started, “You don’t even have a car.”

“My parents have the Ford wagon.” James chimed in enthusiastically, “I’m sure they’d let me use it.”

“Oh, that would be great man.” Chris replied.

I sat there quietly and pondered the situation for a long moment. As I sat there, it seemed that plans were being made for me. By the end of the evening it was agreed that as long as I could get the time off from work, I was in. We had planned to be gone a month, a weeks drive there, a weeks drive back, and two weeks in the Haight-Ashbury section of San Francisco. It would prove to be an adventure I will never forget.

The following morning I told my parents. They were less than enthusiastic, but my father seemed to agree that I should at least do these things while I was young. My mother reluctantly agreed. The next step was to break the news to my boss. Since I had been working there for about two years, with no significant time off, he too agreed. It was all set. History in the making, as we liked to think.

On a warm Tuesday morning, just under a week after that fateful beer-fueled night, James pulled up in front of my house in his parent’s ‘62 Ford Country Squire station wagon. The door sills were rusting out, as sixties Fords always seemed to do, but the rust sort of matched the fake wood appliqu?long the side of the car. It wasn’t pretty, but it would get us there. I kissed my mom goodbye and gave my dad a hug. I walked out and threw my bags in the back of the car. James drove over to Chris’s house, where he was waiting outside with metal cases of camera equipment and a couple of beat up old suitcases.

“You guys can help me load the camera cases, OK?” Chris greeted us with.

I sort of knew he wanted us along for something. That, and to protect him in case someone tries to beat him up and steal his cameras.

A few minutes later, we made our way out onto the highway armed with a stack of maps from the local Esso station.