Twin Memoirs

By Robert W. W. Parsons

We began with the generations of my great-great-grandparents, great-grandparents, grandparents, parents and continued on in book 2 with the high school years. Then with the unexpected inheritance, the transfer to Harvard University, and the gauntlets of the seventies and eighties. So what's next? What's next? The discovery of Michael's lost summer of free love in 1967. Let us return to the days of "Make love, not war," as the hippies chanted this and danced in the parks of San Francisco high on life. Or was it LSD? Matlin and Michael continue their life's journey with newfound friends and continuing struggles. A brother's betrayal is heart-wrenching yet forgiving. But a brother's death is forever life-changing, tragic. Great-grandfather's gold is discovered right under the twin's noses while myths and legends are being revealed. Stories will be told that lie in the dusty, recessed fictional section of the library, where movies are made from to stretch our imaginations of those so-called fictitious legends and myths. It will be discovered that what you may have read in books and what you may have seen in movies may be, and in the case of the twins, real. As we say farewell to Michael, a new chapter opens for Matlin's new beginning. See what a grandson has to say about his grandfather's beliefs. Tommy Crow begins to introduce us to Matlin and Michael's friends that they have made over the years. Hear what these friends have to say about the DeMarco brothers and the gaps in Matlin's and Michael's stories that are now being filled.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Sep 16, 2018
• ISBN: 9781642982220

Book preview

Chapter 25

Reflection

Or Is It a Psychedelic Pause?

Summertime … will be a love-in there.

—San Francisco (Be Sure to Wear Flowers in Your Hair)

Scott McKenzie, 1967

I am twenty-seven. Harvard is on hold for the summer. The year, 1967. The place, San Francisco. The district, Haight-Ashbury and Castro Street. Michael speaking.

The Vietnam War is at its height. It is hippie versus beatnik. It’s the Doors with Light My Fire, Sonny and Cher’s The Beat Goes On, and Somebody to Love by Jefferson Airplane. Jim Morrison tried to take you higher according to Ed Sullivan and his sensors.

* * * * *

I came across the following entries of Michael when he disappeared for over two months back in the summer of 1967. Michael wasn’t running drugs like he was when we were at Berkeley. He wasn’t protesting the Vietnam War like he was with Russel at Mount Rushmore. Remember, he passed on Alcatraz Island. And he wasn’t showing off with Bruce Lee and his newfound martial art of tae kwon do.

Michael, as they said back then, was very far out, still trying to find himself after his tragic accident just before the 1964 Olympics. Whether he was on drugs, specifically LSD, or just describing the scene, his journals will enlighten us.

Here are the accounts of his events as he wrote them. I didn’t expand much between Michael’s life after his failure, or should I say, his devastating injury at the Olympic trials back in 1964, and our visit to the valley in September of 1967. It took years for the Olympic dream to heal. The scab would finally disappear that summer as his limp remained to remind him of his agony of defeat.

June 12, 1967

Arrived at San Francisco airport. Harri Crishner advocates tried to usher me into their so-called religion. I passed. I didn’t like the robes. I was more free. Free to share my body with the world. Not covered up with robes.

As I left the airport terminal, a group of disabled Vietnam vets were improvising Buffalo Springfield’s song For What It’s Worth. Sometimes a tune will not leave your head. Stop, hey, what’s that sound … everybody look what’s going down.

I made my way to the Haight-Ashbury District of San Francisco, the heart of the Cultural Revolution. I soon found a better district, Castro Street, the heart of the homosexual revolution. While walking along the sidewalk, I heard Jefferson Airplane’s White Rabbit, followed by Somebody to Love playing on someone’s phonograph. Ernie came to mind. The album cover had the d crossed out on somebody.

Looking for a place to crash? I heard a guy ask.

Was this a gay hippie? He was very skinny, shirtless, with a beard, long hair, and he was wearing round glasses. A homemade, rolled-up cigarette was dangling from his lips as the smoke curled up and into his face. He offered me a puff. I took it.

Upstairs were several single mattresses on one of the bedroom’s floor. This is your spot, he said as he pointed to a mattress in the corner. There were no sheets and blankets. Rent is $25 a month, paid in advance.

I dug out two tens and a five and took another puff off the cigarette he offered. I was getting light-headed. The guy said sheets were $5. I had to buy the blanket if I wanted one. Summer was coming on, so I doubted I would need a blanket.

A guy and girl came in, got naked, and had sex on one of the mattresses. They asked me to join in. I declined, as my head had begun spinning.

I was feeling good, even though a little light-headed. I stripped down and put on my cutoffs. Barefoot, I went outside to join in the conversation.

A guy ran his hand up my leg as he offered me a puff off his cigarette. I took a puff and handed it off to someone else as the guy’s hand grabbed my crotch. He moved in closer as I closed my eyes. A wet mouth found my exposed and growing penis. People gathered to watch this guy go down on a monster cock, as I heard them call it.

In a daze, I opened my eyes as the sun warmed my body on the steps of the sidewalk. I saw a silhouette of a man, as the sun hid behind his head. I closed my eyes, and the next thing I remembered, I was lying on the mattress with a dark Negro next to me. He, too, was shirtless and in cutoffs.

Must have had some bad weed, I heard him say as he asked if I was all right. I rubbed the side of my head as I sat up and looked around. New in town? he asked.

Yeah. Just arrived this morning. What time is it?

It’s 9:00 a.m., Tuesday.

What! I shrieked as I lay back down. My head was throbbing, my hands covering my face.

You’re coming off a high. First time? I’m Jackson, he said.

High? I questioned. What? I questioned again in confusion. Oh, I’m Michael.

The pot you smoked was probably laced with LSD. Too powerful if it was your first time. I know these guys. They drugged you and were probably going to rob you, maybe rape you too. Did they know you had a bundle of cash in your bag, Michael?

And who are you? I asked as I remembered, I thought, that he said his name was Jackson.

Trevor Jackson was his reply. I’m a Vietnam vet. I saw you being taken advantage of and had to do something about it. I might be screwed up from that damn war, but there is some ray of hope in me still.

You saw me hot and horny and wanted me for yourself, I said as he interrupted me.

Yes, I wanted you, but honorably.

Kiss me, I commanded as I looked into his eyes. His eyes were dark brown, looking transparent and trustworthy and angelic, so to speak.

He kissed me, paused, and asked, Are you hungry? At least you can buy me breakfast for saving your ass yesterday.

Steak and eggs?

Bacon will do for now. Steak for dinner tonight, he said as he looked down my body, licking his lips.

TJ, as he asked me to call him, was a god. His dark, black body was flawless. He was toned to where every muscle twitched as he moved. The sun glistened off his shiny body as he moved. He was hairless everywhere I could see. No hair on his arms, legs, chest, and head. He had a scar between one of the creases of his well-defined abs.

That’s where I was shot. Lost a kidney. Honorable discharge, Purple Heart, screwed-up head.

TJ was homeless, did odds jobs, and was looking to find himself after the devastations he saw overseas, I learned as we ate breakfast.

June 16, 1967

TJ and I found an apartment in a house off the beaten path of Castro closer to the Haight-Ashbury District. I had found a stranger, who knew nothing about me, and who had seen the horrid atrocities of war, caring for me. TJ was also twenty-seven.

June 18, 1967

TJ invited me to church. He learned from me that I had grown up in the church. But this was no church building. It was a gathering of people in the park, dressed or not so dressed in colorful, far-out clothing. TJ and I just wore our cutoffs and sandals. TJ liked to be free of clothing, just like me. Plus we were vain, wanting to show off our hot, sexual bodies as we danced to the music in the park.

TJ introduced me to the good stuff, marijuana not laced with drugs. We both got high and enjoyed the day, the sun, the people, and the free love and sex in the park. Many times throughout the day, I heard Spirit in the Sky by Norman Greenbaum. The day was all about Jesus and flower power.

Never been a sinner

He never sinned

I got a friend in Jesus

So you know that when you die

He’s gonna set me up

With the Spirit in the sky.

June 23, 1967

What a week! TJ introduced me around to his Vietnam vet friends and their work against the war. I became involved in the cause, not only concerning the war, but also gay rights, as I soon learned from being introduced to that movement too. This was more organized than what I had done with Russell.

June 25, 1967

Sunday in the park again. After a few tokes on a shared joint, I got up and started doing my martial arts movements. I started with some Jeet Kune Do movements Bruce taught me. Then I added in some tai chi with the little I learned of capoeira movements, with backflips, twirling sidekicks, and handstands.

TJ joined me in a capoeira routine that left my jaw on the ground. He was so graceful and powerful in his movements. What little I knew, he took to a whole new level. People gathered and watched this free, open-air demonstration of an enhanced free-form martial art that had been laced with pot.

TJ introduced me to a new form of martial art called Muay Thai he learned while in Vietnam. He fought alongside some Thai men who taught him a few movements.

We smoked some more, had sex in front of people in the park, then went back to the apartment after dinner.

July 5, 1967

TJ and I spent the night in the park along with many other people. The fireworks were spectacular. Or was it the pot and alcohol that made the night brilliantly glow? Or was it the sex? Pot, alcohol, and sex—the trifecta of free expression. Okay, public expression.

July 29, 1967

It was late, almost 3:00 a.m. There had been trouble in the neighborhood with straight guys coming in and bashing not only the homosexuals but also the hippies. Rumor had it, it was the rich youth who drove in from their fancy houses to beat up their unsuspected victims.

TJ and I were walking home, hand in hand, when suddenly two cars pulled up and nine guys jumped out with baseball bats. We were both high, so our adrenaline was also on high.

All nine guys came rushing at us with bats swinging in the air. All nine guys, seconds later, lay injured on the ground or lay thrown through the windshield of each car. Sirens blared as TJ continued to beat one of the guys to a pulp. I had to pull TJ off the guy so he wouldn’t kill him. We ran off into the night, alive and uninjured.

TJ, in his mind, had returned to the front. He was on survival mode. He had to kill the enemy to survive. Without me to rescue him from his warfare nightmare, I’m sure TJ would have killed all nine young men.

I climbed on top of TJ when we got home, naked chest to chest, sweat mingling with each other. He struggled. I kissed him to calm him down. Soon he surrendered to my tender gestures. He relaxed. He fell asleep.

July 30, 1967

The Sunday morning paper had an article on the third page about nine young men who were found by the police all bloodied and beaten. Broken bats were lying in the streets, windshields smashed. All nine were taken to the hospital. Attackers nowhere to be found.

Bullshit! I yelled, startling TJ. The attackers were the nine boys. We were the attackees! I exclaimed. Again, no justice for the minority, I thought.

August 13, 1967

TJ and I spent our last day together in the park. TJ was going home. All I knew was, home for TJ was in Trinidad, where he was born before his parents migrated to the United States and took up citizenship. I had to look up where Trinidad is. Found it off the coast of Venezuela in the Caribbean.

August 14, 1967

I hate rainy days and Mondays. Today was Monday, and it was raining. As TJ came into the room to say goodbye, Monday, Monday by the Mamas and the Papas was playing on the transistor radio. Monday morning couldn’t guarantee that Monday evening you would still be here with me. I hate it when songs come on the radio and infiltrate and match the moment.

The door closed, and I was left alone. The rain had let up, but it was still gloomy with a heavy overcast of clouds. This type of weather in San Francisco is not unusual for August, since we are by the ocean.

As I stared out the window, another the Mamas and the Papas song came on the radio. In my daydream-like state, the song that played was California Dreamin’. I decided to go for a walk on this gloomy summer day after the song ended. I zipped up my jacket as the door closed behind me. There was a chill in the air.

Damn lyrics wouldn’t stop churning in my head! I stopped into a church I passed along the way. I got down on my knees and … But I didn’t pretend to pray; I actually began praying, looking for answers. Mom came to mind. She was on her knees at the end of her bed, praying fervently for my lost soul, I assumed.

And then the answer came in the form of a fucking preacher. As he walked by, not even asking if he could help or pray with me, he said, Go home, boy. It’s time.

Jesus Christ! I hate rainy days and Mondays.

August 17, 1967

There was a knock on the door. The Colonel had tracked me down and had me on a plane to Boston. The article of those nine boys made the national news. Now, why would I be the one to have put down those nine guys in Matt’s mind?

And why did this stupid scripture come to mind? He was raised on the third day according to Scripture—and is still alive! (1 Cor. 15:4). Oh, crap! This is the third day since TJ left and I prayed. And yes, I am still alive. Guess my spirituality has been raised from the dead.

And that damn song again. Why? On my way to the airport, a Tony Bennett song came over the radio. The Colonel loved his old music. The song? I Left My Heart in San Francisco.

* * * * *

The mythology of the summer of 1967 has never disappeared for those who lived during that time period. The San Francisco hippie, dancing in Golden Gate Park with long flower-filled hair flowing on the wind, has become as much of an enduring American archetype as the gunfighters and cowboys who roamed the Wild West.

More importantly, the rise of sixties counterculture has had a significant impact on our culture today. The summer of love Michael took part in resonates in strip mall yoga classes, pop music, visual art, art deco fashion, attitudes toward drugs, the personal computer revolution, and the current mad dash toward the greening of America.

While some of the counterculture’s dreams came true over time, others, particularly the movement’s idealistic politics, evaporated like the sweet-smelling pot smoke that saturated the air that summer in the park.

I never saw Michael smoke pot. The only evidence he ever smoked pot was logged in his journals that summer in 1967.

TJ was never mentioned by Michael. He was met, loved, and left in the smoke-filled summer haze of 1967. I could never find TJ’s existence as I researched war records, citizenship papers, and residents of Trinidad.

Was he, TJ, just a psychedelic imprint on Michael’s mind? That Sunday article in the newspaper was clipped out of and folded into the pages of Michael’s journal.

Chapter 26

Justin and Jamie

I was labeled a troublemaker, my mom an unfit mother,

and I was not welcomed anywhere. People would get up and

leave so they would not have to sit anywhere near me.

Even at church, people would not shake my hand.

—Ryan White, 1988

April 4, 1983

Matt bought us for our birthday two DynaTAC portable phones. He said we were a few of the first to own them. When I asked why, he said, I paid nearly $10,000 for these phones. The car phones we had in our Denver business vehicles were limited in their ability, and so were these. These portable—and cumbersome, may I add—were useless in the mountains.

* * * * *

Michael and I often discussed the issue of who would take over the Matlin/Michael Empire once we are gone. Neither one of us has considered marriage, nor have we any children or relatives deemed capable of running a worldwide empire. Michael kept telling me not to worry, that something will come up. Besides, he would tell me, we were still young and had many years ahead of us. Neither one of us knew at that time just how short time really could be.

Mother had outlived two husbands and two sons. She had a full life packed with many dear friends and many, abundant blessings. She told me she wouldn’t change her life for anything, even the mistake she made as a young woman in Paris in 1921. Mother remained very active right up until her death just after the New Year in 1984. She was eighty-one. She died of a stroke and is now buried between the Colonel and Father in the family cemetery in a small valley near Eagleton. I was glad she was able to see the dreams Michael and I had come true. Now it was just Michael and me, the brothers DeMarco.

Mother was disappointed that she never had grandchildren. She never talked about the gay lifestyles Michael and I led, but I knew she disapproved of them. When Jarod came into my life, I shared the agony of my conflictual desires with Mother. She prayed for me continually even though she accepted Jarod into the family. Within time, Mother realized how happy I had become with Jarod, and she saw a true, loving relationship develop. When Mother died, Jarod and I had been together for over twenty years. Mother gave us her blessing just before she died. That meant so much to Jarod and me.

It was on a Wednesday morning just before Easter 1984. The kids were enjoying spring vacation, and the town of Eagleton was gearing up for the summer months. The snow had melted all around the castle. It was going to be a warm spring. This day was no exception, with temperatures reaching into the low seventies. This was quite unusual for this time of year in the mountains. This was the day Justin came into my life.

The mail plane had just dropped a small mailbag onto the drawbridge. I waved to the pilot as he tipped his wings and headed south toward the airport. Eagle-Bear mail was always dropped off before the plane landed. The courier would then begin the distribution of the mail throughout the valley. On a beautiful morning, such as it was, I would often sit on the drawbridge and enjoy the day. The sorting and distribution of the mail was usually done by my assistants, but occasionally I beat the staff to it, as I did that day.

As I sat there reading a letter, deep in thought, I was startled by someone who said, Good morning! I looked up to see a young teenage boy panting. He was wearing cutoffs and sneakers and had his T-shirt tucked into his back pocket. Perspiration trickled down his temples, matting his blond hair to the side of his face. His chest glistened as the sun reflected the moisture off it. I guessed his age to be about fourteen or fifteen.

Good morning was my curt reply. Please have a seat and rest a spell. Are you thirsty?

His reply was Yes, sir! I had one of those portable phones with me, so I called the kitchen to have them bring out a pitcher of lemonade and two glasses.

When the young man had caught his breath, he introduced himself. My name is Justin. I just moved into Eagleton from Denver, and you probably might remember my dad. He was the contractor on the Eagleton restoration project.

After a moment of thought, I did remember his father as the contractor I hired to rebuild Eagleton. Now he was the owner of the lumberyard and hardware store. I knew Mr. Kase. He had two sons, but I had never officially met them before since they and their mother had remained in Denver until this spring.

The lemonade arrived, and two glasses were poured. Handing one to Justin, I took the other, and we both drank down the cool, refreshing lemonade. We topped off our glasses again and continued our conversation.

Then it hit me. Justin Kase! That’s an unusual name, I thought out loud.

Justin explained, My parents thought that with a name like Justin Kase, nobody would forget my name once they had met me.

They were right, I agreed.

Then he said with a smile, I guess that the name Justin fits with Kase just like garage fits with door. I smiled, and I knew I was going to like Justin.

I asked Justin, What can I do for you?

Justin had used a wave runner to come across the cold lake and then ran the mile from the cove up to Eagle-Bear. I knew this because he informed me that he left his wet suit with the wave runner and wasn’t cold at all when I had asked.

My brother and I need a good job that pays well. I want to work and earn some money for college. That way, my dad won’t have to work long hours to save that money for me.

I see your concern. Then I asked, Why don’t you just work for your dad?

If my dad knew I was saving the money for college, he would pay me more than what I was worth. So why work at all if he was going to give me the money anyway?

Even though these quite unusual financial thoughts for a boy caught my skepticism, I liked the honesty in this kid. A kid with morals and values. Refreshing.

Justin continued, It would mean more to me if I could earn the money myself, away from the help of my dad.

Does your brother agree with what you have just told me? I asked Justin.

Not at all. Jamie is totally against working altogether.

Justin’s brother sounded just like Michael in our youth, getting paid for not having done any work.

We’ll do anything. We could mow the lawns, clean the stables, weed and water the garden, wash the windows and the cars. We would work hard, and I would keep my eye on Jamie. Even though my brother doesn’t like the idea, I have convinced him to go along with it.

I asked Justin, Does your family have any plans for Easter Sunday?

Justin responded by saying, We’re going to church and probably have a barbecue afterward in the park, if the weather is as warm as it is today.

I have the perfect solution. Why doesn’t your entire family spend Easter with Michael and me? We have no immediate family and would be happy to share what we have with your family. You could come over after church. We could barbecue some burgers, go skiing, since you have wet suits, and discuss your future employment here at Eagle-Bear.

Justin’s face lit up. Yes, sir!

I handed Justin a business card with my personal phone number and told him, Have your folks call me to confirm Sunday afternoon. He reached his hand out, and I reached my hand to him, and we shook them. I watched as Justin ran back down to the cove. Then it occurred to me—Justin was just like me when I was his age. Another coincidence? Surely not. The Colonel was no longer watching over Michael and me. But God was. I’m sure Mother saw to that.

Mr. Kase called me Friday morning to apologize for the intrusion. I told him it was no intrusion at all, and frankly, I was intrigued and flattered by Justin’s visit. I assured Mr. Kase that the invitation was mine and that his family was welcome to spend Easter Sunday with Michael and me. The dress would be very casual summer attire, if the weather remained as warm as it was.

I had already discussed Justin and his brother’s working situation with Michael. Michael was looking forward to spending some time with the boys. I asked Michael to promise me he wouldn’t make any advances toward the boys. For Christ’s sake, they were underage. He said he wouldn’t, but by my description of Justin, he said it would be tempting. I gave Michael a stern look.

April 8, 1984

Matt and I celebrated Easter today with some new friends. Matt invited the Kase family over for a barbecue after church. In the meantime, Matt and I agreed to give these boys a trial period to see if they really wanted to work for us. We went ahead and drew up a contract even though I had never met either of the boys and Matt had never met Justin’s brother. I do remember that Mr. Kase was the contractor on the Eagleton project, but I had never met his sons.

I couldn’t understand why everyone was laughing as I greeted them at the Eagle-Bear dock within the cove. I guess it must have been the look on my face, because no one told me Justin and his brother were twins. I later found out that Matt hadn’t known they were twins either. Justin had the same experience. He wasn’t aware that Matt and I were twins. I then knew why everyone was laughing, and I joined in.

Jamie,