What you can say about us who were young in the 60's

Is that we did what we thought was right, regardless of what the World (which, correctly, we viewed as infinitely corrupt, and whose moral judgement we saw to be worthless) thought of us.  So when Deacon proposed to me that I move in with him and his new bride, Margo, in the fall of 1964, in the upstairs apartment of a house in Spokane--and Margo being agreeable--I did so, without a qualm or a second thought.  We lived, so far as I recall, on scraps, irregular donations from our parents, and  the federal government's surplus food program.  I, of course, was deeply, though chastely,  in love with Deacon, and became quite good friends with Margo--who recently has described my presence then as a life-saver for her.  Mostly, it came down to Margo and me, as innocent as six-year-olds, sitting around the kitchen table in our bathrobes, drinking coffee and chatting gaily and cheering one another up, while Deacon was off on his mysterious, usually fruitless, quests of income and employment--while the long night of winter settled inexorably in upon us.

A friend, Hugh, who spent so much time with us as virtually to be one of us, also not infrequently drove me away with him to spend time at his upper middle class childhood home, to play chess while drinking lapsong souchong and listening to Ravi Shankar and Bachianas Brasilianas, and to partake of his mother's wonderful homecooked suppers--the only sweetbreads I ever really liked, grilled crisp on the outside, par example, accompanied by equally delicious crisp-baked French fried potatoes. 

It was Hugh who first introduced me, then Deacon, then Margo, to Bill and Sue Weaver, a couple of weeks before Christmas 1964.  I say so politely, mentioning Sue from the first as if she were of equal importance--and maybe she was--but it was, in fact, as far as I was concerned, all about Bill; his teachings from the Vedas and the Sutras (what wonderful sermons!), which were my weekly (sometimes oftener) meat and drink thenceforward, for the next couple of decades. All I knew in late 1964 was "Here is a man from whom I can learn something!" And with that as my sole concern, I'm pretty sure that I may have been, at least sometimes, embarrassingly sans gêne. At any rate, I remember Bill, with infinite patience and kindness, saying to me on a fine morning in June of 1965, "You've got something just a little bit wrong here:  I am the Master. It is to me that you bring offerings of dope and ganja. It is your place to get me stoned; not mine to get you stoned."

"Yes, that is so," I said, and went into the bathroom and washed my face.  When I came out, I sat down opposite Sue and said, "I'm all better now!"  And we laughed our butts off.