EMAIL FROM THE BABY BOOM

By Victor Lynch

Travel with a young baby boomer as he leaves home, "dropping out" like so many in his generation coming of age and out of the crazy '60s, the "decade of assassins." Wandering and writing as though drawing maps and seeking a lifestyle far removed from the war-torn culture he knew to be misguided, he discovers friendship, tragedy, heartbreak and redemption. Only many years later could he see clearly the reasons he was driven and to where he was being called. A lifetime of prose, verse, and song lyric accompany and follow those youthful vagabond days, and any number of baby boomers can find themselves in his songs. Enjoy the journey!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Covenant Books, Inc.
• Release date: Jul 26, 2019
• ISBN: 9781644717288

Book preview

Early Lessons

Fences

Containing his childhood mischief, the new safety, security fence;

Gray metal wound like baseball diamonds, it was sturdy and straight—no nonsense!

But with a buzzing at the post hole, yellow-jacks came zooming in!

Seeking his face, zinged a sting in his eye! He could swat, but he could not win.

Hurrying, scurrying all through the yard, siblings laughed with his every cry!

Safety fence? Look at him. Quick! they wailed. We have to put mud in his eye!

Ceilings and Floors

He was exploring dark, new spaces in a new home on the first day

When with a creak, a crack, a squeak, the floor was giving way!

There he was, in his make-believe cave, slowly creeping along until…

Stunned faces, well lit, looked above to the ceiling and,

The new hole through which he’d spilled!

Yearnings

He likes to tell this tale in spite of reputation’s cost,

How, in his room when very young, he mourned his box turtle,

That he’d lost.

But he sat consciously believing that through the power of his yearning,

He could gaze down from his window, quickly, and see his precious pet

In a slow march, returning!

He ran! Amazed that it was so, straight below, he was never quite the same!

Like some before him, he attempted finding colors with no names!

And searching for the places human souls can feel elated, he learned,

A love of simple creatures cannot be underestimated!

(Collecting cocooned caterpillars to see their wings appear!

Or building cardboard toad hotels, the sanctuaries for his friends,

In his early years.)

PART TWO

Dawn Light, 1970

Dawn Light, ’70

Wanderlust fell upon his generation like an unholy grace. Among those affected, many were angry, some insightful. Stirred by war, they gathered like a sudden storm. And acquitted in their numbers, they took to the streets with a rally cry of some new nation. Peace was envisioned, not unreal. Love reborn in a nation torn!

On his own, John was seeking sweet intangibles, origins, and beauty—all within him or with all his senses able to perceive. Altered visions created ancient pyramids in water sumps. Landscaped lawns, flowered, shimmering and moonlit, became carnivals for fireflies, night crawlers, and creepers! These were the Utopian-flavored, astral journeys, mind expansion—nothing to believe.

Epiphany! Imitation took him down a road to his own heaven. The decade of assassins ended, eyes opened wide, new dawn arrived! All of his childhood fantasies, once concealed, met him suddenly, subtle as the serpent! The New Age anthems enriched the old world, the death of youth began, and in cold, bright January, adolescence died!

He bid farewell to the family home—all domestic goals, free as a young sparrow, ready to fly. Another searcher chasing laughter in the sun. And far removed from safest havens, a son of the drunk whose curse endured, his joyful leap of faith had just begun.

Wandering byways, penning sermons for himself, he was guided in melodic schools of thought—a priceless treasure he was grateful to have found. His eyes were fixed on far horizons yet to be revealed. And standing still or sleeping, homeless, satisfied, and free, he would watch and learn and grow on unfamiliar ground.

Now all of nature became a friend. He stepped away from isolated ghettos, displaced siblings, enmity and strife into worlds of runaways, street urchins, into the airy temple of the hobos—bright diamonds in her dome. Strangers would happen along with gifts—bread and cheese and traveling boots, a sweet farewell from a vagabond dove in the mall that served as home.

Aimless in innocence, adopted street companions, once the roaming thieves of autos seeking joyrides and cheap wine, were sudden volunteers of night-flight—drinking courage in the cold March winds, thumbing west until directions were obscured, all skies darkened, bottle empty, east and west left undefined!

Wanderlust! In roadside thoughts, penniless and light-hearted, a young hobo abandoned knots and ties, inculcated lies, all fading loves and scars of youth, all suburban scenes! And on a Pennsylvania highway, silent stars above and snow below, the universe nudged him under his coat, his conscience, and the