Gladville, Usa: A Look Back at Some of the Ups and Downs of the Counterculture Movement in America

By William Makit

There was something about the name Gladville. I was ready for a new outlook on life, and the town of Gladville gave me something to believe inhope, optimism, goodness, and being glad all the time. I pictured a town that was not too big or too small but just right, a place where I could find a new beginning and grow mentally, spiritually, and perhaps financially.

Gladville is located in Northern California, near where I went to school at UC Berkeley. Its close to San Francisco but not too close, close enough to enjoy an evening of big city life but far enough away to escape its trappings and intensity. Redwoods, beaches, and an alternative lifestyle appealed as a setting for the new me, a launchpad for the next phase, and it was located right on the Pacific Ocean.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: May 15, 2017
• ISBN: 9781524691455

William Makit

William Makit is a product of the counterculture movement in America during the 60’s and 70’s.... In Gladville he relates an account of the idealism and convictions of a youthful generation who wanted to ‘fix’ the planet and make it safe for all. A furniture maker, musician, photographer, gardener, minister and neighbor, he lives in the foothills of California’s Sierra mountains and still carries a message of hope and respect.

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© 2017 William Makit. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 05/15/2017

ISBN: 978-1-5246-9146-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5246-9145-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017907234

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

The Plunge

Heading Out

Neighbors

The Shop

Log Number Three

The Sign

The Beach

Music

Some History

Puma

Onward and Upward

The Ascent

Farm at Sea

Barn Raising a Home

The Band

The Drought

The Journey South

On to Guatemala

Terremoto

Girls

The Sun Festival

The Drink

Dearly Departed

The Flood

Upward and Awkward

The Plunge

T here was something about the name….Gladville. I was ready for a new outlook on life and the town of Gladville gave me something to believe in. Hope, optimism, goodness and being glad all the time. I pictured a town that was not too big, not too small, but just right. A place where I could find a new beginning and grow mentally, spiritually and perhaps financially.

Gladville is located in Northern California, near where I went to school at UC Berkeley. It’s close to San Francisco but not too close….close enough to enjoy an evening of big city life but far enough away to escape its trappings and intensity. Redwoods, beaches and alternative life style appealed as a setting for the new me, a launch pad for the next phase. And it was located right on the Pacific Ocean.

On a warm spring day I jumped into my old VW van and headed out. Waves of yellow mustard and the rolling hills spurred me on with a simplicity and an invitation….. come further…..reach out….try. I rolled back the window and gulped in the air like a kid on a bicycle.

As I entered the small town of Gladville I stopped at the only gas station to top off my tank as the gas gauge was not reliable. A thought entered my mind, ‘what are you doing here, you don’t know anyone….’ I put the nozzle back in the pump and thought briefly of running back home.

Just then I heard a deep voice from behind.

Welcome to Gladville, young man….whatcha up to today? I turned to meet a tall burly man with a curly moustache and a large belly. His deep blue eyes showed sparkling confidence.

I’m Dean Green, the mayor of Gladville……and we’re glad that you’re here!, thrusting his meat hook hand into mine before I could resist. Fumbling for words I let out a feeble ‘howdy’, buying time so I could figure a worthy response.

Well, it’s nice to meet you Mayor Green, I’m just out for a Sunday drive.

People around here just call me Mayor, I’m not actually an elected official, replied the man. I guess it’s because I’m so talkative and friendly like. We don’t really have a mayor, but I’m proud to have the position.

Good deal I replied…. then you must know the best place to get lunch around here.

Sure, get on down to the Come On Inn….that’s where most folks like to eat he replied.

I followed his directions to the center of town where an old Victorian house had been converted to a restaurant. Central Avenue was situated nicely between two hills and sported a group of old buildings that had been painted and patched and propped up by those who just couldn’t bear to tear them down. The mature trees and bushes gave the town a feeling like that of an older friend.

A big wooly dog was lounging on the front porch as I went up the creaky steps…..he didn’t lift his head but wagged his tail slowly as if to indicate that I had passed inspection. Homemade soup smells wafted from the kitchen area with a garden like fragrance….the kind that demands more information. An old man sat staring out a window with a tee shirt that said, Space is the Place.

Could this be my town? The place where I would finally fit in and fulfill my dreams of a family, a friend, a brother? A respected citizen of a wholesome town that encourages individualism but embraces unity? My experience at Berkeley inspired an idealistic view of the future, one where we can all take action to improve the lives of each other as an extended family. Could it still happen?

The dining room had about a dozen tables of assorted design and period….like a dozen garage sales heaped on an eclectic canvas that this eatery had on display. Several tables were filled with what appeared to be locals, as they pretended not to notice me, but studied my every move from the corner of their eye or from behind their Sunday paper.

A bulletin board was stuffed with colorful pages of notices, everything from lost animals to sewing classes to yoga in the park. A small yellow poster announced Open Mike Night, a chance for the local talent to show off their musical wares. As I dreamed of my role in the perfect band I heard a woman’s voice from my left, Honey, you lookin’ for a table?

Sure, thanks I mumbled, still rocking out with my newfound music buddies in my head.

I’m Nearly Normal Norma, but you can call me Norma for short. We grow our own food as much as we can and what we don’t grow we get from local farms as much as possible. Jack Wiggans brings us fresh fish every couple of days when he has a good run. Grab a table that suits ya.

I obliged her, wishing to get off on the right foot. Settling in to a bagel and vegetable soup, I picked up the local paper, the Independent Sun. Perhaps I could find work as a carpenter here and build my own house…..find a sweet wife, raise some nice kids, have a dog and a cabinet shop and a garden. The dreams just kept coming, like waves of Norma’s coffee.

Surprisingly, there was an ad for an assistant furniture maker with a nearby shop. Forrest Hiller was a well known furniture maker who lived in the area………could this be him? There was no name in the ad, just a phone number. Once again, the dreams started flowing and I decided to take a chance. Finding a pay phone on the corner, I dropped a dime in the slot and dialed…..the heart was pumping like a big bass drum.

Hello? I was surprised to get someone on the phone on a Sunday.

Hi, I’m calling about the ad for a furniture maker….

Well, I’m off today, can you call back tomorrow? he replied.

Actually, I’m from out of town and was hoping to see you today if that’s possible…. I swallowed hard and waited for what seemed to be an hour.

Do you know where the big curve is on the road into town? OK, as you get to the end of the lagoon, turn into the driveway with the rooster on the mailbox. Give me a half an hour OK?

You bet, I’ll see you then! I hung up, not sure who I was dealing with. Could this be him? No, this was too easy. Forrest Hiller was in the Smithsonian….guys like me came from miles around just to catch a moment with him, perhaps picking up a tip on the art of fine woodworking.

The driveway was muddy from spring rains and the yard smelled like eucalyptus….large trees looming over the furniture shop with giant limbs. I walked up to a large, sliding wooden door with cloudy glass…. and sheepishly knocked. No answer….around the side I found a short, scruffy man with a red plaid shirt and a thin beard.

Howdy, I’m here to talk about the job opening….

Good….grab a seat and let’s talk. Where you from?

Not sure how this was going to work out….he wasn’t smiling.

I’m living in Berkeley right now but I’m looking for a change. I saw the ad in the paper and thought I’d look into it.

Well, this is it. Been here for thirty-five years, still working out of the same shop. My name’s Forrest.

This was him! I must be dreaming, this can’t be real. Forrest Hiller is probably the most respected furniture maker west of New York…..what’s he doing looking for a helper?

It’s a pleasure to meet you….have you had much interest in the position? I squeezed out.

Oh sure, had a lot of guys come by……a lot of snotty nosed kids and wannabes….didn’t feel right, I sent them packing. he grimaced.

We talked for a while about slabbing trees, a job that my Uncle Sly had for twenty-three years.

I noticed the walnut slabs next to the driveway…..are those from local trees? I asked.

Nope, Central Valley. I have a good source out there. And he delivers.

Doesn’t the rain damage the wood? I said, pretending to know more than I did about wood curing.

Nope, it’s the sun that wrecks ’em. I’ll cover them up eventually. They have to dry from the inside out. Say, if you’re gonna work here you’re gonna have to do something about that ponytail.

My manhood was at stake…..like Samson, I derived massive amounts of power and confidence from my long blond hair. What could be his objection in this counterculture bastion of rebellion?

Last guy got his hair caught in the machinery….can’t have that. The first rule in my shop is that you don’t get any blood on my equipment.

We worked out a deal. He couldn’t wait any longer and needed help soon. Was pinching myself at this new development…….I agreed to start in a week for a meager wage…..anything to get into Hiller’s shop.

Do me a favor, he concluded with as we shook hands and walked out to my van. If you wake up one day and don’t feel like coming to work, stay home. I don’t want you here unless you’re focused and committed.

Not sure what I was focusing on and committing to, but I was ready for a change. I was ready to throw my hat in with all the other players in this sleepy, quirky little place called Gladville. There was something going on and I was on the road to find out.

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Heading Out

I t was time to leave Berkeley. It seemed like all my buddies were cutting their hair and getting jobs. And a degree in Sociology wasn’t exactly providing me much hope for success, as the ones who did graduate were pumping gas and driving trucks.

So much for the Revolution, I thought. But I wasn’t giving in……I promised myself that I would take our idealism to the grave…..somehow I would live the right kind of life that didn’t subscribe to the greedy, materialistic idiocy that had become so engrained in American life.

My landlord was cool though.