Well, 60s retread, actually. (Although I'm the only one of my generation who actually DID NOT go to Woodstock or march in an anti-war rally.)
Dad was a combat veteran (Pacific theater) of WWII, raised in rural Louisiana, moved to California after the war to work for Lockheed and married Mom, estranged from her family (and who would never talk about her background) -- and they settled in a tract home in the beautiful orange groves of southern California to raise a family (three kids) and live the good suburban life with cigarettes, cocktails, neighborhood barbecues, and backyard tomato plants. Enter the State of California to exercise its right of eminent domain and condemn the entire neighborhood so a new freeway could be built.
On fire from a book he had read ("Crusoe of Lonesome Lake" by Ralph Edwards), Dad informed Mom he was going to use the proceeds from selling the house to the state to get out of California and head north to Canada to homestead and "get back to his roots." He bought an old delivery truck and built bunk beds in the back, piled the wife and three kids inside, and spent the three months of summer vacation in 1958 driving the family north towards his dream.
The money ran low in Eugene, Oregon, where he took the civil service exam for postal workers in desperation and landed a job. (Temporarily, of course.) While the family stayed in a fleabag motel, he searched for housing -- and bought a 110-acre spread with an old logger's cabin that had no indoor plumbing, a wood stove for heating, a seasonal well, and no electricity. (One can only imagine my mother's shock and abhorrence of her new lifestyle and how close they came to divorce over his decisions.)
Please indulge me while I give some telling details about why I'm a card-carrying "retread." This "temporary" hiatus from Dad's heading north to homestead lasted from my tenth year to when I left home at 21. My chores as the only daughter included chainsawing the winter wood supply, splitting log rounds into quarters with a double-bladed axe, clearing brush, digging new outhouse sites, walking a mile to and from a spring to collect drinking water in old milk jugs, caring for and butchering chickens, watering first-year fruit trees by hand to start an orchard, tilling/planting/fertilizing/watering a big garden, fixing barbed-wire fence line, digging out and repairing roadside ditches, and shooting rattlesnakes with a .22 when they were spotted in the pasture around our beef cows.
He built me a separate bedroom from my brothers in a huge oak tree, 15 feet off the ground and accessed by a spiral staircase, complete with handmade wooden furniture and a potbellied stove. When the fire went out in the winter overnight, I would wake up with frost INSIDE the windows by my pillow.
We walked a mile and a half uphill to catch the school bus. Mom had to bundle the laundry for five people into town twice a week to do the laundry. Showers were under a bucket of warm water in any weather while standing on a wood pallet with the chickens as an audience. Any spare time from chores I spent wandering the acreage, finding my special places and enjoying my solitude.
I thought everybody lived like this. I'm 61 now, and all of them and all of that is long gone -- and the life lessons I learned from being raised like that have stood me in good stead my entire life and repeatedly surprised me with the depth and breadth of knowledge my "green" visionary father imparted to me. I only wish I'd asked more questions and listened more closely than I did.
So, yes, I'm a "retread" but one with a pile of country-living smarts to offer to others who ask me about how things used to be done. I feel no need to apologize for the 70s -- or the 60s!
