A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to My Grave

            I knew it was coming. I can’t say I didn’t. A lifetime of ignoring mortality has a price to pay sooner or later. 

Unlike some long suffering Russian living under enforced regimentation, I chose breakneck speed toward my demise bit by daily bit, day by yearly day.

            Who pays attention to stress when the template of life’s existence is predicated entirely upon a future of stress? Nah..no stress for me. Just chaos and clock-watching my life away.

I always believed eternity is like spinning in endless circles. No, wait. That would be a better description of my life. Be that as it may, I’m certain hell isn’t for the damned. It’s doing that which one has loathed all their lives. Hate laundry? It’s an eternity of laundry, fluff, fold and store. Hate cleaning? How does an eternity mopping, dusting and scrubbing sound?

            “Play life as close to the vest as possible,” I told myself over and over.

            “Ignore all obstructions even those cement walls you managed to avoid plowing your late model car into,” I said.

            After all, isn’t a daily trip to and from the office a guarantee of at least one fender bender a week? Sure it is. How can it not be? Millions of cars, trucks, buses and semis all vying for road space, like roaches after a crumb of poisoned food? Isn’t that the most memorable trip to the office, after all?

            Which, by the way, the office environment, comprised of honchos with major superiority complexes is another joy to behold. Hurry up. Get that mountain of paperwork on your desk done or the Czar of the Corporate World won’t just be offended. He’s prepared for the Second Coming of the Inquisition, with the same penalty for inadequate response time of violations to corporate rule. Oh joy!

            The corporate world, as no one ever really knows it, is usually the underbelly of all that can possibly be fruitless. Is there some point to squeezing 16 hours into an 8-hour day?

The Czar? He much prefers squishing two days into an hour. Timely, cost-effective and all that crap, don’t you know?

            The real grind was pretending not to be absolutely amused by the facades, games and skullduggery supposedly as covertly hidden as any CIA black ops. How do you keep a straight face when the Czar arrives at 10 AM and his corporate board of executers...er…executives arrived a half hour ago?

            Of course now, it’s just as funny watching the titans of sales and marketing go postal on each other in the great Game of Territorial Tyranny. Death be not proud, I always said.

            Every day at the office is like an episode of a comedy show. No one, but me, laughs. Wait. Make that smirks. Laughing is not tolerated in the corporate world. It’s too much a sign of being human. Robots only need apply. And, don’t give a single thought to making a productive suggestion. You may as well sign your own death certificate.

            When the five o’clock bell rings, we innocent children of the corporate world breathe a sigh of much needed relief; though, not for long. There’s still an hour or more of traffic congestion, horns honking, road rage and all manner of lack of civility to endure before “Home is where the Heart Used to Be.”

            Home? Oh please. Home is nothing more than a guideline for “should be” living. Everything must be as it “should be” or your obedient neighbor card is yanked away. Your perfect little lawn must be tended to on, what else? Your free weekend time. Or, you could get financially zapped by one of those “contractors” who does everything but remove your last nickel from your bank account.

            Thoughts on my way to the bone yard? A certain sly dog contractor who was up to no good and managed to filch a tidy sum for a job he spent a total of 15 minutes of work time to collect a week’s salary. Naturally, his work had to be redone by another “contractor.” A lifetime of trying to find a single honest contractor to paint, repair plumbing or electrical wiring wears on human life like a massive tidal erosion on a seacoast. Now and then, it’s possible to enjoy that all too rare feeling of confidence that you’ve gotten your money’s worth and won’t have to waste another decade in your endless search for honesty, integrity and bang for your buck.

            Was it the constant knowledge life is a huge game of who can rip off whom the most that brought me to my final demise? Or, the gangrene of games played by those who should know better?

            A sudden wave of memories of cans of tuna packed in water? More like, water packed in tuna. Three pounds of potatoes sold at the same price five pounds used to cost? Size does matter. Especially, when every day of your pathetic existence you notice how much smaller packaging has become and how much higher pricing went. A smile would cross my now rigored face. Was that really living? Waiting day by day on the next assault on my hard earned income? Being part of some strange alien life force game? Losing all personal control over human existence?

            Perhaps, the speed at which I raced through life had a purpose after all. It minimized my ability to focus on the games and the players.

            One might suppose on this final earthly day that a limo ride to my final resting place is more than a privilege. It’s interest on a lifelong loan that paid at less than zero percent interest rates.

            These final thoughts are part of that long, strange trip to the afterlife. If...there is an afterlife after all. I choose to believe, somehow, someway, though my physical body returns to dust, my immortal, now more powerful soul will find recompense for a lifetime of dodging bullets.

            I may be out of breath. I’m not out of thoughts. I’d always heard about a “final judgment.” In this limbo between earth and eternity, it’s possible to understand better the meaning of this.

            “I” am making the final judgment. I’d thought this would be the domain of a much higher, more supernatural power. At the moment I realize there was no turning back and this was a final voyage into the vast unknown, every detail I thought I’d forgotten came flooding back in memory.

            Memories of good and bad times. Memories of people long gone before me. Memories of a life encapsulated by normal human miseries and ecstasies. I never planned to say goodbye to my loved ones. It was a mutual understanding that there were no goodbyes, just a “see you later.”

            My plan was to leave the planet in better condition than I found it, all subversives to the contrary, of course. In some lifelong plan for my final demise, I knew that the end needed to be peaceful in order to enjoy eternal “rest.” Rest?

            Hmm…rest from the daily grind? Maybe, rest for the old bones that once loved to dance, sing, putter in the garden and enjoy family and friends. Faces come before me faster now: the face of the infants I once held, the third grade school teacher I so feared,  the young man I thought I’d love forever, that young woman who looked to me for guidance…so many faces like floating clouds in an azure sky.

            Oddly, there is a strange awareness of faces peering up at me. Up, down and somewhere in between is the location of this limbo place. A sense of fear grips me as those peering up at me seem angry, dark and hidden behind a thick wall they are clawing to reach me. Yet, I sense deeply that my journey is ahead.

            There! Ahead! Two faces I know so well. The brothers I grew up with. Funny, but there’s a kind of déjà vu feeling. Once, a long, long time ago, I followed them into the woods near our house. Before me, lay a wide creek. Then, my brothers urged me to jump across. I adamantly refused. They took me by both arms and told me to, “Jump!”

I’ve always been morbidly terrorized by deep water. No reason. Just an odd fear of drowning. At numerous intervals of my life, I’d had dreams of crossing a rickety old bridge with my brothers. At midpoint, the bridge collapses in the dreams and I try to save my brothers from drowning. Swimming lessons were of no avail to avert the fear of drowning.

            Now, they were taking my arms again. They weren’t telling me to jump this time. They were guiding me along a lovely path. Ahead was a deep, wide creek. The water was darker than any in my dreams.

            They started to jump across holding my arms. I slipped down into the water, struggling to rise to the surface. In my struggle, the water began churning into a vortex that seemed to pull me further and further down. Then, just as I thought I’d reached the bottom, my brothers dove into the water after me and pulled me out.

            Funny, I wasn’t water logged or even aware of being wet. The images of my brothers seemed to fade. I felt an uncontrollable feeling of loss. Yet, I knew I wasn’t alone in this place.

            There was a light ahead. The kind that radiates with prismatic beams in gold, purple, green, silver and white so bright it seemed to radiate heat. It was magnetic. There was no way to avoid confronting it. As it drew nearer and nearer, I thought I heard one of my favorite melodies playing softly in the background.

            I knew I was crossing from this limbo state into another dimension. There was such an air of relief. It was as if all of the weights and burdens of life had been lifted from my shoulders. Oddly, time rushed at such a speed that it blurred slower and slower until a micro second seemed eons long.

            Now, I could look down on my grave and see my family grieving respectful of my wishes that only my family and closest friends attend my funeral.  As the casket was lowered into the ground, a sunburst so bright shot out from behind fluffy white clouds. Everyone at the gravesite looked up at the sky.

            I whispered from my eternal home, “I love you and will always be with you.” Floating, floating in the great parapet of eternity, I know I’m not alone. There are unseen forces to guide me and comfort me. I’m freer than a bird. There’s something to be said for eternal rest for the world weary. 

Mommy Poorest - The Truth About Single Moms

It's a curious anomaly in the USA. Hidden behind years of hardship, struggle and public indifference and judgementalism are a population of American single Moms. The attempt at stereotyping these women had a significant pyschological purpose: to insure these women would not destroy the sanctity of marriage. Look deeper. To whom is the "sanctity of marriage" most important? Women? Or, Men? Since most religious denominations are predominately dominated by men, the answer is obvious. The sanctity of marriage is more important to men than women only as a means of controlling the gender most capable of managing the household and raising children.

Until the 1960s, there was a deeply embedded belief that women should remain at home, become domestic engineers and chief among their duties was child-rearing. Only the wealthiest women in the US avoided this. The poorest women lived patchwork quilt lives. Single Moms before the 1950s had best become single Moms through widowhood exclusively. All other was tantamount to becoming Hester Prine and wearing a large letter on her chest.

Then, the rebellious young women of the 1960s came into their young adult years with ideas that set most male dominated households on their ears. These women were more educated than their mothers. That education should have value. It should mean equality on all levels. How foolish was this novel idea? The word "feminist" began to be whispered on college campuses. Oh sure, a few male students appeared to support the idea that women, all women, married, single or God forbid, divorced, have equal rights. And thus, the war between the sexes began to where today, it is at fever pitch.

Many of those 1960s single moms rationalized their life situations. They were determined to raise their children, manage their household and also be the head of the household. Enter the new label for these women: Super Mom. Was she really Super Mom? Or was she really Mommy Poorest?

Using their educations as the basis of earning their incomes, many of these women found the dirty truth about employment: It was a gender biased and male dominated as the religions they were faithful to. An entire generation of single moms learned just how the corporate games were stacked against women to benefit male employees viewed as the only valid "head of the house." Still, these single moms trudge forward and onward, aware that a gender war was festering just below the surface. After all, war was a man's domain, right? Only men were capable of battle strategies, yes?

Oddly, as men were breaking the barriers in formerly all female jobs like nursing and administration and reducing the number of these jobs for women, single moms were lucky to find work cleaning offices, as file clerks and librarians. Double standard much?

And so these women fought a no-win battle with life with little advancement or hope for equality in gains in employment. Finance was still the domain of men. Single, divorced moms were particularly onerous to society. For women with their MRS degrees, they represented a clear threat to their marriages. For men, married or not, women in the workplace meant having to make changes viewed as too costly. Now, two bathrooms had to be installed. They could no longer hang pinup calendars with cuties sexually exploited on their office walls and worst of all? They had to act like gentlemen and watch their foul spoken language and their sexually implicit body language. Not fun. Big time inconvenience. Who needs it? Just hire men.

Along comes EEO/AAF and laws that reined in gender bias. The shuddering among male business owners was felt from sea to shining sea. Worse, now they had to consider equal pay for equal work without pandering to gender. Still worse, they could no longer bar single moms from jobs just because they chose single life and parenthood. What would become of American society?

What became of American society was a footprint in a typical female shoe size. A shoe that often kicked many of the old mores and ideals to the curb with strong footpounds of pressure on all sides of the female ranks.

Meanwhile, single moms kept hammering away at their jobs, assuming the responsibilities usually accorded to two adults in households with children and succeeding against all odds with aplomb. Some even spent what little free time they had finishing their educations at the same time providing childcare, often without financial help from the paternal side of the aisle. Others created support groups which for the first time in US history addressed the huge number of physically and mentally abused women and children. The tide of gender strength was finally turning. A few of the most educated and savvy women realized their excellent managerial skills were perfect for entrepreneurial advancement. Many started their own businesses on their kitchen tables while cooking supper or feeding the kids. Some of these pioneers realized they had to adopt some of the same strategies men used to get ahead. The women who did this were called "Tight Butts" or worse for their efforts.

Suddenly, these neophyte soldiers saw the blatant defiance of their male counterparts in those double standards and refusal to comply with laws regarding gender bias. Like a house of cards crumbling card by card, women began to invade those male bastions of long held dominance. Now, men didn't just shudder, they began to fight back in courts of law. As if, there ever was a law that would determine one gender to be inferior to another.

Single moms persisted in their efforts. They learned not to focus on the negatives and instead make their children their entire lives, often at the expense of their own. If single moms learned nothing, they learned the finely honed art of sacrifice. Many denied themselves vacations, luxuries, new cars and all of the trappings those MRS degrees insured when households had a well established income. Ironically, these married women began to realize how limiting marriage could be. They had no money of their own. They had no life other than keeping house, raising children and playing canasta with other married women. The insipidity of their lives created a green-eyed monster between married women and single moms who appeared to "have it all"---unparalleled freedom, children and their own money. Financial independence was where it was at. Married women exited their domiciles in droves by 1975. Most chanced only part-time jobs. But, their interface with the single moms who worked to keep a roof over their kids heads began to grow the root of unrest among married women taking a more acute view of the marital state.

While respect was in abundance for married women, disrespect for financially independent married women was not. Hence, the rise in the US divorce rate as a result of women's demand for less biased divorce laws.

By now, single moms were raising teens. All of whom were slated by the married set to have no future other than juvenile delinquency. After all, a household without a man is the breeding ground for crime, right? With the growing number of households headed by single moms, the crime rate between 1960 and the present should have been enough of a problem to have a prison on every local street. Yet, more of the most publicized children who grew attracted to theft, burglaries and violent crimes were from two-parent households. The stigmatization against single motherhood remained all while single moms ignored it and kept their sights on their children's lives. They encouraged their children to explore the world of sports, music and education with every fiber of their children's beings. These were women who understood extreme sacrifice and the enormous pressure to prove that single motherhood was anything but a breeding ground for crime as the media would emphasize.

Being a single mom to the married, male dominated world was tantamount to be a welfare leech. Yet, the government numbers tell a far different story. Men in business simply never made the connection to the fact that paying women less meant forcing them onto welfare rolls. Nor, did they ever admit that women with children had special needs. No specializations allowed for working women no matter what their circumstances. These business men never made the connection that women had full and entire responsibility for raising their children alone. True, it was their decision in some case. Not in all. Many women determined that living with an alcoholic, drug addict, gambler or adulterer for the rest of their lives was too much a sacrifice for them AND their children. They chose to exit the marriage proving their acute understanding of sacrifice.

Living with daily routine and schedules only Super Moms could manage, these women sacrificed so they children could go to college, often without child support or any help from the fathers of these kids. By the time these children were college age, their fathers already had "second" families with second wives who facilitated the banishment of their "husband's" first children. First children simply didn't fit into Daddy's new family.

So, most of these abandoned children learned to get on with their lives following the examples of the only parent role model available to them: Super Mom. To these children, Mom wasn't just the heart and soul of their homes. She was the breadwinner, the role model for civilized behavior and the tough disciplinarian determined her children would show the world they had equality with children from two-parent households.

Meanwhile, back in Marriage Patch, men began resenting the intrusion of so many women in the workplace, in sports, in the military and worst of all, in government. Not beneath pulling out the lowest stop to insure this strange episode in American life didn't become permanent, their attack was always based upon making the offending women appear to be without morals, even if that meant lies, slander and libel. What did it matter? The goal was to scandalize the woman, get rid of her and replace her with a man.

The greatest growing danger was a population of single moms whose children were now young adults and independent. Now, these single moms had time and freedom to tackle those issues that dogged them all their lives. Their first line of attack was to clean up businesses who bilked their female employees by refusing to offer equal opportunity. Blowback was coming.

Ironically, these effective single moms were able to do the impossible with the least. So, the response by men in business was to make these public advocate females appear to be "whistle blowers" or in the male vernacular..."cheese eating rats." Men simply don't rat out other men no matter how low the deal is.

Asking women to adopt this masculine peculiarity was too much. These were single moms who tried against all odds to raise decent, honest children. The growing tide of unity among American women, married and single, was world shaking for some men. When the first female political candidate was chosen for Vice President of the US, the digging of all manner of scandalous dirt by those most opposed to women in power was clear. All that did was encourage more women to enter politics.

Perhaps, the worst slap in the face to dominant males is that not one, but two US presidents were raised by single moms.  Both are college educated and understand the hardships single mothers live through in decades of self-sacrifice.

Mommy Poorest is the truth about single moms. They do without, fight to keep off welfare and make do with salaries most men wouldn't consider accepting. These are the women who have no free time of their own, can never afford vacations for themselves or their kids and have to watch every penny they spend for fear of ending up bag ladies. Yet, they exist on the dream of seeing their children succeed. The typical male response is: "You made all the wrong decisions."

Did she? Or was it that the men they thought were responsible, accountable, decent, honest men were reading from a script for some bizarre hidden agenda? You have to be a mind reader to know the future.

Employers knew by dropping healthcare plans and employee pensions, women, particularly single moms, would find the struggle unbearable. Worse, these employers knew it was a way of controlling women's futures. Women know you can be young and poor. Old and poor is a death sentence.

The Afterlife and a New Identity

The Afterlife and a New Identity
The living fear one thing most: death. Curiously, exploring the possibilities of an afterlife is often viewed negatively. So, let's play, "What if..."

What if?
Inasmuch as no human has, as yet, been resurrected after death, the question of what if the human spirit doesn't die? Every human being is born into the cosmos at a split second in eternal time. Though many have similar likes and dislikes, no two humans are exactly alike. Is this distinctive distinction due to physical, mental or metaphysical factors? Perhaps, the truest distinction lies in the deepest recesses of our feelings and thoughts we hide from the outside world. The human spirit is deeper than the deepest ocean and wider than the sky. Certain human spirits are also as colorful as a rainbow.

What if the human spirit doesn't die? What if the inner spirit of humans merely travel in eternity to another life dimension? Heavy thinking this.

From astrologists, we learn that humans are born under specific signs of the sun, moon and planets. From ancient cultures, we learn that humans are intended to be a prevailing factor in the earthly environment we exist in. Were these ancient cultures on to something the modern world dismisses with pessimism? The ancients knew their place in the universe. The Moderns have reversed this and know the universe's place is under their control. This is where the distance between existential humanity and universal eternity lies.

What if your Spirit Prevails in an Afterlife as a New Identity?
All human beings are magnetically attracted to certain things. For example, some of us live in mortal terror of deep water; others dive as deeply into vast oceans as is humanly possible. Some fear high altitudes; others propel themselves in space capsules far off into the Cosmos. While the human body rests after death and returns to the earth from whence all human life forms began, it is possible the spirit remains alive and active in another dimension, returning to earth only when required to resolve unresolved issues at the time of death or to take on a new identity.

Spirit Has Purpose
Born with a uniquely individualistic spirit, each human is endowed with purpose. Human life is based upon the spiritual, emotional, mental, physical and metaphysical states. Humans have the ability to combine each of these at any given point in their lives. Often, the balance of these states sway so that an individual may be more cerebral or emotional, more physical than spiritual or metaphysical. Humans own the curious ability to search for answers. Is this driven by the mind? Or the spirit? The "WHO" of humanity is not always our brain power. It can be those unalienable spirits we are born with that mark our identities and places in the universe.

Pain and Suffering; Pleasure and Ecstasy
All humans at some point in their existence experience pain and suffering in varying degrees. Many seek pleasure to the ultimate goal of ecstasy. Examine ecstasy. In human terms, it's mostly short lived. In spiritual terms, ecstasy is limitless, absent the physical body. Perhaps then, the proof of an afterlife lies in the experience of short lived ecstasy presented as a condition of preparation after death. Pain and suffering may also fit this particular earthly preparation.

Good and Evil and the Afterlife
Viewing life from the typical human philosophy, seeking existential purpose is a vocation rather than a career choice. Good and evil are part of the human equation of purpose. What separates the two is human free will to choose good or evil. How humans spend their earthly life may seriously affect eternal "rest." Think about it. The more evil any human may be, the more the weight of their evil presses upon their spirit at the moment of their deaths. We know this to be true given the numerous "death bed confessions." Is it the human confessing? Or the spirit asking for absolution of evil?

Conversely, humans who spend their lives being good and true to their spirits have resolved all remaining issues and "rest in peace."

The Afterlife and a New Identity
The human spirit is capable of extraordinary force of energy and strength while alive. We see this in the amazing ability of humans to withstand the most inhuman conditions to save the lives of loved ones. If the human spirit possesses such extraordinary power, it seems possible then that after death that strength doesn't just vanish. Spiritual strength with such force of energy and strength in life would necessarily be the propulsion toward another life after death with a new identity. Many call this reincarnation. Reincarnation can't be proven scientifically. It may be easier to prove spiritually. It may explain odd sensations humans call "premonitions" and "extrasensory" deja vu." It may also explain super intelligent savants and prodigies.

Genes and ancestral heritage play may also play a role in the strength and force of the human spirit in a kind of cataclysmic spiraling of the spirit.

Human spirits, filled with wonder and curiosity, are like the wind. Sometimes, forceful and destructive; other times, peaceful and serene as a gentle tropical breeze. Consider that the human spirit may possibly be an indelibly imprinted element of existence that allows for a happy afterlife with a new spiritual identity.

The Hippie Girl of '64

Rosemary Clarke stood in the enormously long line of graduates this sunny, 17th day of June 1964. The student body numbered 1500, owing to half-session classes and an overburdened high school campus with limited classroom space. Still, Rosemary's slate grey eyes cast a wide glance over the football stadium turned graduation venue. She saw her fellow classmates in royal blue caps and gowns, dangling gold fringe tassels and tiny gold '64" pendant, march in alphabetical order into the rows and rows of beige metal chairs, girls to the right, boys to the left.

Rosemary wondered, as her curiosity was always piqued, why girls and boys just couldn't sit together. As she took her place at her seat, she thought about the coming summer vacation and her entrance into Vassar college in the fall. She inhaled so heavily at the complexities of these thoughts she could barely catch her breath. Embarrassed at this physical disruption, she coughed aloud as she stood, all five feet six inches of her and waited for the recessional music to fade and Principal Mary Cloughy to rise to the podium.

The cement football bleachers were stacks with tiers of parents, siblings and a host of other relatives and friends of the Graduating Class of 1964. She smiled momentarily as she recalled attending dear old Woodland High School's football games. She looked at the black robed teachers, each wearing a solid colored ribbon that denoted their degrees. PhDs wore gold, while silver was for those with a Masters and blue was for those with Bachelors degrees. She amused herself thinking they looked like penguins massing on some glacial shore.

Rosemary never was "one of the crowd." She was, however, one of the top ten in the Honor Society's roster of students with the highest grade point averages. No surprise there. Rosemary loved learning new things. The more she learned the more her curiosity about the world around her grew.

June 1964 was the year Rosemary's life was about to change. She was an only child of traditionalist parents who highly prized education. Vassar was more the thrill of their lives than Rosemary's. Still, she was willing to abide by her love and respect for her parents and the choices they made for her. It was of little consequence that Rosemary's obedience to them was absolute.

She heard her name called by Principal Cloughy. She walked toward the stage with fellow students thinking how odd it was that now they were called in alphabetical order. This meant most of the students called ahead of her and after her were in reality all her homeroom classmates.

Homeroom, she mused, where students who were lax in doing homework rushed to complete that day's assignments or snoozed until the bell rang signaling them to march in those long, endless lines to their first class of the day.

For Rosemary, the first class was Calculus I. Her last class of the day was the one she liked least: gym. She felt self-conscious about her scrawny legs and slightly bulbous butt. She always had to be reminded by the gym teachers to tie her long, raven hair into a pony tail for safety reasons.

For safety reasons? She mused. What possible catastrophe could occur in gym other than the girls in the class whispering cruel gossip to each other and comparing their physical attributes to her lack thereof?

For her graduation dinner, Rosemary's parents took her to the local, upscale restaurant, Coach and Paddock. As usual, she wasn't hungry so, her parents ordered for her. The idea of being on the Vassar campus and miles from home meant parental freedom that had yet to occur to her.

Unlike most other students in the graduating class, Rosemary wasn't expected to take a summer job to earn her college tuition. Her father, an aeronautical engineer, insured their upper Middle Class status. Her mother, the curator of the town's museum, encouraged her daughter's love of nature and horses by enrolling her for this summer hiatus at the state department of forestry.

Rosemary wasn't thrilled about this until she met Jax Moreno, a guy just two years her senior. Jax was the icon of what all girls Rosemary's age would consider totally datable.

At first, Jax didn't notice Rosemary. There were several other girls closer to his age and physical ideals he seemed more interested in. Rosemary remained coolly aloof..until the day she decided to go horseback riding. She'd had lessons earlier in her childhood in both English and Western style riding. Yet, on this day, in hot, muggy, sunny July, as soon as she climbed into the saddle, she slipped and fell in full view of Jax and his female admirers. This brought Jax to her aid and his female entourage into gales of giggles.

"Hi, I'm Jax Moreno. And you are?" he asked.

"Rosemary Clarke. Thank you for your help; but truly, I'm just fine. Other than a problem sitting on my rump for a day or so.." she said.

Jax gave Rosemary that measuring look she'd seen the boys in her class give to the perky cheerleaders at Woodland High. What was so fascinating about cheerleaders anyway?, she mused.

For the remainder of the summer, Rosemary kept to herself while Jax and the other girls spent their time with their heads together. When the summer ended, she was glad. Now, it was on to Vassar and freedom from the prying eyes she felt were always upon her.

By September 1964, the rumblings and rumors of war were making headlines. She'd already heard that several of her male high school classmates were drafted into the military. These were the guys who had no means to go to college. Those who did were able to avoid the draft---for four years at least.

Moving into her Vassar college dorm was chaotic. Her parents made certain she had every possible convenience. This made the move more chaotic than it needed to be. Rosemary always preferred simplicity. But, at least, her dorm roommate wasn't going to be a problem.

"Hi. I'm Linda Tallman," the roommate said.

"I'm Rosemary Clarke."

"What's your major?" Linda asked.

"Mathematics," Rosemary answered.

"I'm Business Admin. I'm no mathematician," Linda said, smiling.

"I find math challenging. But, that's just me," Rosemary said.

When first classes began, it was as if Rosemary had opened an oyster shell with a huge pearl inside. Studious as ever, she found herself enjoying the ability to eat when she pleased, where she pleased and with whom she pleased. She met another math major, Nils Holstrom, a Yale exchange student from Sweden. They ate lunch together on occasion exchanging math theories. Rosemary was impressed with Nils' in a platonic sort of way.

Things around her were changing rapidly. Student protests on and off campus against the war were growing even in these early days of a war somewhere in Southeast Asia. By 1965, Viet Nam was no longer an unfamiliar word. The papers were full of every remote detail about this tiny, former French protectorate and the rebellions taking place. She decided to attend a few of these rallies, something she knew her parents would strenuously object to.

Edward Thornton Clarke was pro-military. Adrienne Roxman Clarke, if she had any opinion on war and the military, kept it tucked deeply inside. Till now, Rosemary never gave war a thought. Her childhood had been idyllic.

Now, she saw photos of children as young as two years old blown apart by bombings by the Viet Cong from North Viet Nam. Day by day, this war was growing in interest on college campuses. Rosemary tried not to be distracted from her courses.

In her sophomore year of college, Linda invited her to tag along to a war protest. Rosemary went, mostly because she felt elated at finally being included in a social event.

When Linda and Rosemary arrived at the protest, she couldn't believe the number of students in the crowd. She guesstimated there had to be at least two hundred young college age men and women. The speaker was a member of an anti-war group. There was the usual rabble of folkies strumming an acoustic guitar and singing some old country tune or the "preachies" who got the lion's share of attention gathering small groups around them in an effort to bolster their "charisma." Still others, smoked weed and listened half-conscious of the speakers and students around them. The cloud of smoke over their heads was enough to get on a good secondhand buzz.

Ron Darby caught Rosemary's eye. Tall and swarthy, she couldn't help noticing his militant demeanor. His curly, black hair ruffled in the wind. She didn't mean to stare. He caught her glance quickly and strode over to her.

"Hi, I'm Ron Darby. Glad to see you're here for the protest," he said, in a somewhat hoarse, throaty tone.

"Rosemary Clarke. Thank you," she said, extending her hand.

"Which college are you from?" he asked.

"Vassar."

"Oh my. Rich girls' college. What's your major?" he asked.

"Math. I plan to get my PhD, if I can keep my grades up," she said.

"Rosemary? Can I call you "Ro?" he asked.

"Sure. I guess so."

At first, she grimaced slightly at the nickname and then shrugged it off as payment for inclusion into this new college society.

"There's a meeting at the coffeehouse in town tonight. It's very important. We're trying to get as many as we can to attend," Ron said.

"Are you inviting me?" she asked.

"Yes. My pleasure," he answered.

Rosemary didn't know it then; but Ron's invitation was the first step into a world she had never known, a world that would forever change Rosemary Clarke into the Hippie Girl of '64. Though she'd eventually lose track of Ron and engage in several, very brief, very sexual romantic affairs, her grades didn't suffer from lack of due diligence, just a growing lack of passion and interest.

Her fling with freedom expanded to the point where she knew Vassar was no longer where she wanted to be. Gone were the clothes chosen for her by her parents. She used their monthly college expense stipend to shop for clothes at a local second hand store.

She dressed in colorful, long, flowing dresses, funky looking sandals and learned to crochet short vests, shawls and ponchos in wild colors she knew would make her parents cringe. She let her raven hair grow long and parted it in the middle like other girls her age.

Still, she still felt distanced from them. She immersed herself in philosophers like Nietzsche, Schopenhauer and modern beatnik poets like Kerouac that inspired her sense of solitary freedom. Whenever she visited local coffee houses, she felt free from all of the parental traditions and expectations she'd grown up with.

Music was everywhere. Her roomie, Linda learned to play folk guitar. Whenever the opportunities arose, Rosemary attended outdoor music festivals. She was drawn to folk music and folk singing especially. The world around her was changing so fast, she felt she could barely take it all in. It was almost as if each time she inhaled and exhaled, another change shook the world she lived in.

When summer came in 1965, she heard a brand new word that described free birds of the world: "hippie." Guys were seen more often with long hair and beards. Girls were growing less inhibited and more vocal about their rights. It was as if young people across the country awakened from a bad dream and were all taking to the roads, streets and highways.

Gone were the inhibitions of the 1950s spawned by a generation of adults who held a fierce grip on their children's lives and futures.

Something oddly unidentifiable inside Rosemary was restless. She still felt "caged" at Vassar. She faced two more years before graduation. She stood on the precipice of a life changing decision and hardly realized it.

Her opportunity came when she boarded a bus that summer. It took her to bright, sunny California. It had always been her dream to swim in the gentle blue Pacific. Her parents were outraged when she told them in a somewhat militant tone she'd left without telling them she was going or where she was headed.

She arrived in Los Angeles on a hot August day. She was profoundly awed by the friendliness of other young people who offered her a place to stay. None had jobs. Somehow, they all managed to have a roof over their heads and ate only the healthiest foods, most of which they acquired from local green grocers in those "day old" sales. Some waited until the stores trashed that day's supplies of dairy or veggies and literally ate from trash cans.

Rosemary soon found herself in the dead center of Haight Ashbury. The enclave of hippies who lived Bohemian lifestyles seemed as if they'd been dropped by an alien space ship. She loved it. Any night of the week, there was music on front steps, in doorways, allies and parks. And drugs. The kind of mind expanding drugs, largely experimental, were everywhere.

For Rosemary, this was a golden opportunity to expand her mind. She meandered about the streets the way everyone there did..searching for a "new age" experience. Each day, she awoke with no real purpose other than to find the meaning of her existence. This she did at first with hashish and then peyote. The effect was mind blowing. Rosemary loved being able to leave the conscious world and roam in the "other" world.

The air in Haight Ashbury was so filled with pot and drugs, hippies joked it was the reason for the dense California smog.

Rosemary awoke each morning not sure which group of hippies she spent the night with. Her life changed so radically; it startled her whenever she was reminded of her past. Often, the reminders were simple, other times they were borne of some detail like news reports from her state.

Like all hippies back then, music was a daily part of her life. Virtually any doorstep or park was consumed with crowds and random musicians and singers plying their artistic and creative talents.

On the subject of art, streets were a veritable art gallery that included painted designs on cars and vans to legions of graffiti covered walls. Sidewalks were a blank canvas turned into artistic messages. It was a kind of hippie code that incorporated flowers, mystical designs and shapes into messages understood only by other hippies.

Some of the older members of the community barely tolerated the rage of counter-culturists, their slovenly way of dressing and their refusal to follow the "old" ways. Others enjoyed the music, the changes and the young who dared step outside their comfort zones.

Rosemary was metaphysically drawn to folk music and folk singers. Eventually, she learned to play an acoustic guitar by watching her friends. Just like high school and college, she still had no close companions or friends. Most of the hippies she hung out with accepted her as a loner who just "hung out" with them.

She took a part-time job in a small book store where business wasn't exactly booming. This afforded her the opportunity to read the writings of Amiri Baraka, Toni Morrison, Maya Angelou and other contemporary writers and poets of the day.

The new word on the front pages of every newspaper in the country---frightened Rosemary: Viet Nam. She remembered the number of her fellow high school seniors boys who were drafted nearly before the ink on their diplomas dried. At Vassar, there were already anti-war groups, albeit still fairly covert, that met to discuss the "war in Asia."

Viet Nam ruffled the peace movement into action in Haight Ashbury in a surprising way. The aimless, drifting hippies who flocked to this hippie haven from all parts of the country suddenly devoured each news brief about the escalation of the war in Viet Nam.

New words were added to press releases: Viet Cong and Hanoi. From what Rosemary gathered, Hollywood had also begun to sit up and take sides for or against US presence in Viet Nam.

Dressed in her long, flowing empire waist dresses in flowered prints, she thoughtfully considered her own opinion of war. She'd always been averse to violence of any kind. Deep within her soul, she loathed the idea of guns and spilling the blood of young adults who fought, not for their country, as she believed, but for a hidden agenda of a warmongering culture who started war for profit more than patriotism.

She boarded a bus to San Diego where an anti-war protest was taking place. There, she met Camille Lafferty, a student nurse turned hippie. They sat with their eyes glued to the speaker on the open air stage. When the rally was over, Camille introduced herself.

"Hi, there. I'm Camille Lafferty."

"Rosemary Clarke. Nice to meet you."

"Are you following the group to the next rally by bus?" Camille asked.

"I can't. I work in a small bookstore in Haight Ashbury," Rosemary answered.

"Is it the Second Time Around Book store?" Camille asked.

"Yes. Do you know it?"

"I should. I room with a bunch of friends in that old 3-story two doors from the book store," Camille said.

"Groovy. I can't believe we've not met before," Rosemary said.

"Care to ride back in the van with me?" Camille asked.

"That'd be great. Thanks."

On their way home, the two women talked about how they arrived in Haight Ashbury and where they'd attended college. Neither completed their study courses for their degrees.

"You attended Vassar?" Camille asked.

"Yes. But, don't let that fool you. My parents weren't so very wealthy. I got there mostly by scholarship and being on the Honor Roll for four years in high school," Rosemary said.

"I attended Nursing School. I have a certificate but, not for registered nursing," Camille said.

"That's pretty impressive. You like nursing?" Rosemary asked.

"I've always wanted to be a nurse since I was a little girl. What were your career plans before you dropped out?" Camille asked.

"I planned to be a mathematician. I flirted with philosophy for a while," Rosemary said.

"Math? Wow..very cool. I'm am a real dud when it comes to math," Camille said.

"Right now, all I want is to travel the world and see it as it really is," Rosemary added.

"Me too. You know something? One of the other girls I room with is..er..was..a registered nursing student. She's leaving us and joining the Peace Corps. Their sending her over there to Viet Nam. I hear there's a huge need for nurses for the military. I don't know anything about Viet Nam other than the war going on there. I've got this tugging on my conscience that I could do something more than just wander the streets of Haight Ashbury," Camille said.

Rosemary listened intently. Viet Nam wasn't exactly London, Paris or Rome. She planned to save enough to fly to London and make her way across Europe. She hadn't given Viet Nam a thought until Camille mentioned it.

"You actually are willing to risk your life in that mess in Viet Nam?" Rosemary asked.

"I heard nurses aren't in danger nearly as often as the guys in the jungles. Viet Nam is actually a beautiful country. It's just like a lot of other third world nations---severely divided by sectarians and ideologues," Camille said.

"Some call us ideologues because we want to shred those crazy ideas our parents had about nearly everything. They think we're crazy for wanting different instead of better," Rosemary said.

"So very true. What worked for them won't work for us," Camille responded.

Camille knew a lot more than Rosemary about the realities of this tiny Asian country exploding bodies and gushing blood like a raging river.

"You've given this more than a little thought, it seems, Camille."

"I confess I have pretty much decided it's time to stop preaching peace and do something about it."

"I have to agree. A lot of these ministers of peace can become as militant as the military itself," Rosemary said.

They reached the book store in time for Rosemary to start her shift. She waved to Camille as she turned to walk to the bookstore. She figured she'd never meet her again unless she wandered into the bookstore. This was the first time anyone bothered to engage Rosemary in conversation. Consequently, she was surprised when Camille showed up at the bookstore that very evening.

"Well, nice to see you again," Rosemary said.

"I'm off to Viet Nam with the Peace Corps. We leave in two days. I just wanted to say goodbye before I left," Camille said.

"Camille? Could the Peace Corps use a mathematician student turned hippie?" Rosemary asked abruptly.

"I think they'd be thrilled. What time do you finish your shift?"

"I work until nine."

"I'll be back then. I'll introduce you to Tommie Richards. He's the head guy at the local Peace Corps office," Camille said.

Rosemary thought she'd had a momentary mental breakdown. Me? Going to Viet Nam? Am I crazy?, she wondered.

By the end of the week, Camille and Rosemary were packed and aboard a Peace Corps helicopter headed for the nearest military airport. Rosemary was surprised that all of the documents like visas and passports were waived for Peace Corp volunteers heading into the eye of the war storm.

They boarded a military plane and landed in a small office in Hanoi where they were given clearances. Camille would work in a military hospital and Rosemary would spend her time at a US military base decoding North Viet Namese military communiques.

"I guess we say goodbye for now," Camille said.

"Looks like it," Rosemary said.

The two women hugged each other and with a brief glance over their shoulders headed off to their duties. Rosemary hadn't told anyone, not even her parents about her plans. Why bother? They'd only freak out anyway, she thought.

While Camille watched as broken and maimed bodies flowed into the base hospital, she began to feel as if the horrendous blood and deaths she saw every day were endless. The worst part was how young some of these men were. Most were her own age, some even slightly younger. The planes shipping body bags back home were so heartbreaking, she had nightmares and trouble sleeping, when it was even possible to sleep.

The sound of bombings were everywhere. Their base was bombed once while she was assisting in surgery. It hadn't mattered that she wasn't fully licensed as a nurse. The war was taking its toll on medical personnel, as well as the men fighting to stay alive.

So many American lives depended on whether or not supplies could get through to military bases and troops. Already, several supply helicopters were shot down behind enemy lines during Camille's first months there.

Rosemary found her niche. She worked without much supervision in a tiny cubicle set up in a non-descript building. The sound of planes overhead sent anyone on public streets scurrying for cover. Damage to buildings outside the base shocked her. She'd never seen a bombed out building in her life.

She was offered protection to and from her little room at the base. It was obvious how important her job was. They'd checked her background thoroughly. She knew this meant her parents too. If they'd questioned her parents, Rosemary realized they might be frantic with fear. There was no way to get a message to them without blowing the covert operation she was part of.

Oddly, though she should have felt totally cut off from the outside world, Rosemary was buoyed by the solitude. She worked silently and yet, was never bored. She quickly picked up the language and its colloquialisms. This made her job slightly easier.

As the war droned on, bombs, whole areas of land mines and the spraying of Agent Orange, made Camille's job a daily nightmare. One of the nurses on the staff was killed by flying shrapnel. This was the first time Camille feared for her own life. She knew she had to keep her mind off the gravity of events around her.

Depression had sent more nurses home with mental health problems. The advantage of her choice to help out in Viet Nam was an incentive, when the war ended, to finish her nursing studies. She realize the importance of the surgeries she assisted with and felt a renewed interest in a specialized field of nursing.

Rosemary was eventually offered a permanent job with the US government. She'd been mostly anti-government before she left for Viet Nam. She believed it was governments who created these wars and caused irreparable harm to citizens.

Now, she saw her country had another purpose in its involvement with Viet Nam. For the South Vietnamese, it was killed or be killed, fight for their freedom or be forever imprisoned by tyrants of the North imposing dictatorial edicts on their own people.

By the time the war ended, Rosemary was heralded as an important government agent for her work in Viet Nam. When Camille and Rosemary returned to the US, it was depressingly different. For Camille, it was too different, more militant and more embattled than it had been before Viet Nam began.

It was as if Viet Nam had opened a whole plethora of wounds and issues. Civil rights marches were already becoming heated and demands to pass the Civil Rights Act wouldn't disappear no matter how much big money interests tried to level it. Women's rights was another rallying cry. Women in 1971 were highly educated and still earning far less for performing the same jobs as their male counterparts. To Camille and Rosemary, it seemed as if a whole new war was at hand right at home.

Rosemary settled into her job in Washington, DC. She visited her parents once before heading to her apartment on the outskirts of DC. They admonished her for not maintaining contact as she knew they always would. She felt glad to be four hours away from her parents and her insular hometown.

Most of  her free time in the years in DC were spent visiting the monuments, the government buildings and her particular favorite, the National Archives. She didn't know any of the others residents who lived in her apartment complex. She spent little time with any of her fellow workers. Due to the nature of her job, this was covertly discouraged anyway.

Washington, DC is a town with numerous, invisible facets of daily life. While it may seem to be the ideal place to work, it often made Rosemary, ever the restless woman, isolated from reality. All that occurred in government buildings was, to her, mundane and meaningless.

It was as if she was being propelled by some unusual motivation to find out where she really belonged. She didn't believe life always comes full circle. She had no desire to rejoin the petty types in the town where she grew up. Nor could she rejoin the free wheeling years she spent in Haight Ashbury. She recognized that Viet Nam had changed all that and her own perspectives on existence.

When the opportunity came to work in London, she viewed it as the chance to discover that world she longed to relate to. Always Rosemary felt distanced to other human beings and the world. She could hardly believe the freedom she'd once loved in Haight Ashbury and comparative difference in the regimentation of the work world. There just had to be something more. Perhaps, she thought, London would satisfy my restlessness and wanderlust.

Her job in London was linked to the US Embassy and British government by the same experiences and skills she quickly learned in Viet Nam. Only now, it was the world of international espionage that caught the eyes of international governments.

To Americans, London is an exciting city that wraps its arms around tourists in a gentle caress without being cloying. There's always that tradition of aloof distance, Rosemary discovered, in relationships. She rather enjoyed the company of the Nigels, Roberts, Charleses, Lloyds and Peters.

She didn't have to invest much emotionally and they in turn, didn't either. Being the toast of London wasn't on Rosemary's agenda. When not dressed formally for her job at the embassy, she preferred the comfort of her tweedy wardrobe and leather boots.

It was in the English countryside that she enjoyed riding horseback again. Although, riding to the hounds was out. She couldn't abide the idea of hunting no matter how much a part of British culture it was.

Still, she was able to go off by herself and enjoy the country landscape. Often, she visited tiny villages off the beaten path in her rental car. In England, there are natural, inbred cultural reservations that amused Rosemary and her typically offbeat nature. Her own unorthodox spirit somehow managed to fit in with this culture.

On a whim, she decided to see Italy and France. She loved Italian dramatics and flair. Instead of touring the major Italian cities, she chose the smaller villages. In France, she was bathed in a sense of music and art and for the first time outside the US, enjoyed the ability to live as bohemian a life as she pleased. Now at least, she had found what she recognized was her true inner self.

She requested to work at the embassy in France. It was rejected. Without much prior analysis of her situation, she opted out of her embassy job in London, took a small apartment in Paris and a job at an art gallery. She had always enjoyed watching artists paint. She haunted book stores and museums with ferocity. After all, her mother had been a museum curator. Soon, she realized she'd amassed quite a bit of knowledge of books, art and objects d'arte. Her job in the art gallery was cataloging each newly acquired piece of art. Not exactly the most important job at the Sur le Pointe gallery.

While in Paris, she received a letter from her mother. Her father was seriously ill and not expected to live. This was the first time Rosemary felt the crushing blow of mortality. She immediately flew back home. It was as if her father waited for her to return before passing on to the next life. Rosemary always believed there was a next life.

She stayed with her mother for a month before returning to Paris. But, already she sensed Paris lost its charm for her. It felt as if a huge hole had opened in her heart and there was nothing to fill it. She tried to link this to her father's passing. She knew it wasn't really loss or grief. It was not being able to find herself that was at the heart of this gaping hole.

Not long after her father's death, her mother joined him. Rosemary felt totally alone in a world she knew she didn't fit into. Her parents left her their entire estate. Suddenly, she was a homeowner? Suddenly, she had roots? She considered selling her parents' property and all their belongings and then thought again about it.

One part of her wanted to leave it all behind. The other part seemed to cautioned her about it. She decided to live in her parents house and make a few alterations that suited her personal preferences. She had the exterior sided in grey and black shutters added to the windows. Inside the house, she bought new furniture in an ultra modern style with new lighting. She stripped the kitchen cabinets of doors and sewed graceful curtain panels she later hung where the doors had been. Out went the old stove and refrigerator and a dishwasher was installed to the right of the kitchen sink. No dish washing for me, she thought.

She converted one bedroom into a small office and the remodeled the master bedroom and both bathrooms. She loved remodeling the place. It kept her busy and preoccupied. Now, she had a tidy sum until she found gainful employment. That newly converted office was furnished with a computer, fax machine, printer and a telephone with a separate number.

She found herself drawn to writing. It was as if the computer keyboard was a magnet. She began writing about people she found interesting. She began interviewing various people in key positions in government and business. When her first magazine article was published, Rosemary Clarke was thrilled to see she had her own byline.

Eighteen months after her mother's death, she received an invitation in the mail. It was the 20th anniversary of her high school reunion. Her first inclination was to throw it in the garbage...which, she did. Seconds later retrieved it.

"Damn it! I'm going. I'm not that odd ball girl I was in high school. I've lived my life and don't have to explain my decisions to anyone, least of the small town, petty girls with whom I attended high school.

A sly smile crossed her face.

They're probably all old and fat and married by now, she thought

The reunion was to be held at the old Coach and Paddock restaurant in one month. She returned the RSVP. She was going to attend..by herself.

She planned her wardrobe. An ankle length broomstick dress with a black velvet empire bodice and black and white chiffon skirt. She chose a pair of flat black slippers and black pantyhose. She even purchased a tiny black evening purse. Her raven hair was still long and wild as it had always been.

On the night of the reunion, she felt nervous. She told herself to maintain her composure. She refused to allow the critical laughter she endured most of her high school years to unravel her poise and self-confidence.

She sat at her vanity in her room and coiled half of her hair into a braid atop her head and allowed the other half to flow freely down her back. Then, she added a lacy string of crystal beads to the braid and her mother's black onyx beaded necklace. She had never worn makeup and wouldn't start now. Without a second glance in the mirror, she grabbed her car keys and drove to the Coach and Paddock.

At the reception desk, two of Woodland High School's former cheerleaders, Debra Phillips and Corinne Moynihan check Rosemary's reservation. She was to be seated at Table Eight---the one nearest the fire exit. The two snickered as they handed Rosemary the place setting card. Rosemary ignored them.

"Rosemary Clarke! We didn't think you'd be here!" Maureen Lonegen chirped disingenuously into Rosemary's face.

"I didn't think so either," Rosemary answered, trying to wriggle free of her former classmate.

"Where are you seated?" Maureen asked.

"Where do you imagine? Near the fire exit, of course," Rosemary answered with an equally disingenuous chirp.

"Now Rosemary, you know you weren't one of the "in" crowd. But, that doesn't mean you were deliberately shifted to the table for singles. Did you bring an escort or your husband?" Maureen asked.

"No escort and no..no husband either," Rosemary said.

She had to wrest herself from more of Maureen's questions. Without hesitation, she headed to her table.

She could have guessed who'd be seated there. Richard Sohejda, the graduating class's chief geek, Mary Everts, the shyest girl in school, Jill Devaney, always overweight, Thomas Montrose, the kid who always picked his nose in nearly every class and James Bunting, an overweight classmate, known as the one none of the boys wanted on their gym teams. Rosemary joined the ranks of the Great Unwanted of Woodland High.

This is where the "in" crowd puts those they consider beneath them, Rosemary thought.

For some peculiar reason, Rosemary wasn't in the mood to be treated like scrap. She knew her work in Viet Nam, DC and England had given her a well-rounded career experience. Yet, she wasn't willing to stoop to the levels of these petty people. She was her own woman just as she'd been her own girl. Nothing about her changed.

Thomas Montrose asked if she wanted to dance. He still seemed like the skinny kid with glasses she remembered.

"So Rosemary, what kind of work do you do?" he asked.

She wanted to say, "I was an undercover agent decoding war secrets."

"At the moment? I'm living in my deceased parents home. I inherited their entire estate and have no real financial worries. And you?" she asked.

"I'm a computer analyst. I work in New York City."

The dance lasted less than two minutes. Rosemary was glad.

Back at their table, Jill was expounding on her last two pregnancies and her family of four to Mary who sat as silently as ever.

"Oh, Rosemary, do you have children?" Jill asked.

"No. I don't. I never wanted them," Rosemary answered.

"Oh that's a shame," Jill said.

The predictable prime rib dinner was served and finished with a gooey, sugary dessert Rosemary declined and Jill lapped up in seconds. Mary barely picked at her dinner, which Richard and James felt was a shame to "waste." The two men picked at Mary's plate like hungry vultures.

"Rosemary, I'd heard you were in Viet Nam," Mary started shyly.

"Yes. That's true. I was living in Haight Ashbury before the war. I met a young nurse there, Camille. She convinced me I might be of help to the military. I'm sure Camille returned home safe and sound and finished her licensing to be a registered nurse. We both were part of Peace Corps efforts," Rosemary said.

Richard and James' ears perked up at the mention of Rosemary working in Viet Nam.

"When were you there?" Richard asked.

"The mid 70s," she answered.

"I was in Nam from '66 until 69' when I was sent home with an injury," James said.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Rosemary said.

"You know Rosemary? Everyone always thought of you as an odd ball in high school. We all knew you were smart enough to make the top ten on the Honor Roll. Why'd you choose Viet Nam?" James asked.

"Truth be told, it was a kind of "spur-of-the-moment" decision."

"So you were a hippie and then a peacenik?" Richard put in.

"Yes."

"Did you work as a nurse with Camille?" Jill asked, giving Rosemary a measuring glance.

"No. Camille had trained in nursing. I left Vassar where I studied math. The US government found my mathematical coding skills to be just what they needed," Rosemary said.

"Wow! That's impressive," Jill responded, disbelievingly.

Rosemary knew Jill didn't believe her.

"How on earth did you parents afford Vassar?" Jill continued.

"I was awarded a scholarship."

When the band stopped churning out nostalgic 60s tunes, Diane deVane took the microphone.

"Fellow classmates, it's our great honor to announce we have several members of the faculty of our graduating class here with us tonight," she said.

She began to read from a list of faculty members who were all seated at a table at the front of the room. Each stood to applause as their names were called. Rosemary noted that Principal Cloughy was not among the names called just as Diane asked for a moment of silence to honor the passing of their "beloved" principal.

Rosemary thought she'd vomit. How phony do these people get? she wondered. No student of Woodland "loved" their principal. She was an old war horse even back then.

As if the air of insincerity could be any thicker, Diane, now accompanied by Barbara Letts, former Woodland Cheerleader, read off the names of the "heroes" of Woodland Football Team. Rosemary thought she'd seen it all. She hadn't.

The six remaining members of the team, one by one, ran out in their old football uniforms, some bursting at the seams, helmets atop their heads, shoulders inflated by thick pads and looking as seemly as it could be. Rosemary tried not to laugh. She glanced around at the others at her table, all applauding as if another touchdown had been made by their "football heroes."

When Barbara Letts threw off the duster she wore, it revealed her cheerleader uniform beneath. This must have been the signal for the rest of the cheerleading and color guard team to make their appearance.

Rosemary held her breath, sensing what was coming.

The nine members of the Woodland cheerleading team now numbered only five, three of whom were grossly overweight and the remaining two had full heads of grey hair. On cue, they began their cheer:

"Who fight? We Fight? Woodland Heroes Fight Fight!"

When the cheer ended, they shook their pom poms in the faces of their "heroes."

A more ridiculous spectacular, Rosemary wished she'd never seen.

"Aren't they wonderful after all these years?" Jill asked.

"Oh my yes," Mary answered quickly.

Diane and Barbara proceeded to request a standing ovation for the "heroes" and the "cheerleaders." The show hadn't ended. The color guard, now all middle aged women in uniforms, boots and carrying their flags marched to the front of the microphone and began to sing, "Oh Woodland Alma Mater," the school's official song. Diane and Barbara encouraged the seated classmates in the room to join in the song.

Rosemary nearly burst out laughing when some of the women sniffled and men blew their noses and wiped teary eyes.

If I never attend a class reunion again in my lifetime, I'm sure I'll never feel regret, she thought.

Diane announced the games. The first game was based on the blurbs the graduating class's student yearbook committee chose for class year book photos. Rosemary always hated hers. It read: "The girl most likely to succeed the least." She knew why that was chosen. Denise Macmillan was on that committee. She loathed Rosemary because Rosemary made the top ten on the school's honor roll, beating Denise out by only three tenths of a grade point.

Rosemary considered leaving the event. Then, she realized it would only support Denise's claims and gossip that Rosemary cheated on the final exams. Only four student blurbs were chosen. Rosemary's was the fourth.

Each of the four classmates were questioned about their blurb and how after 20 years it might still be applicable. When it was Rosemary's turn, Denise took the microphone.

"Rosemary Clarke, yours was "The girl most likely to succeed the least," so tell us, about your "successes," Denise said.

"The blurb is correct. I succeeded the least," Rosemary said, hoping to end this agony.

"Well now, you must have had some measure of success as a wife and mother," Denise pushed hard.

"I never married and have no children. At the moment, I'm living in my parent's home which I've been remodeling and I dabble in writing," Rosemary answered.

She tried to turn to leave the spotlight; but, Denise had an agenda.

"What did you do in the past 20 years? Spend your life as a hippie?" Denise said.

"Actually, yes. I was a hippie and I did live free as a bird in Haight Ashbury," Rosemary said into the microphone.

She heard the gasps and rolled her eyes.

"Tell 'em about your tour in Viet Nam," Richard yelled from her table.

"Oh yes. I worked for the government in Viet Nam after joining the Peace Corp. I also lived in England for a short time, toured Italy and France and only returned home to settle my parents' estate after they passed on," Rosemary said.

"And now?" Denise pushed harder for answers.

"Now, I am content to write about things that matter," Rosemary said.

"Ever the hippie, eh?" Denise responded to the audience of classmates.

"Perhaps, her year book blurb should have been "The Hippie Girl of '64?" Denise queried as the audience roared with laughter.

Rosemary felt the blood rush to her face. She hurried to her table and retrieved her purse.

"There she goes, the Hippie Girl of '64" Jill said as Rosemary's form faded from view.

A month after the disastrous high school reunion, Rosemary was busy writing a bio when she heard a knock on the front door. She peeked through the small lens and didn't recognize the face. It was a woman. She opened the door to see a face she thought she'd never see again.

"Hey! Hippie Girl, remember me?"

"I confess I don't.  Wait..Camille? Can it really be you?" Rosemary asked.

"I spent two years trying to find you Rosemary. Where have you been?" Camille asked.

"Come on in. Can I get you something to drink?" Rosemary asked.

"Herbal tea, if you have it. Haven't lost all my old hippie urges," Camille laughed.

"Camille, I am so happy to see you," Rosemary said hurrying off to prepare tea.

The two chatted about old times and when they just about caught up to the present, Camille said she had a question to ask.

"Well? Spit it out. I'm all ears," Rosemary said.

"I'm planning to "Go West Old Gal" to Montana," Camille said.

"No kidding? You have family there?"

"Nope. Not a soul. That's why I was trying to find you. Have you had enough of this petty town yet? Why don't you come out to Montana with me and we can split living costs. It's beautiful out there and no one will bother you," Camille said.

"Oh my goodness! Montana? That's a big decision," Rosemary said.

"Well, at least think it over," Camille responded.

Rosemary glanced around the room with a quizzical expression.

"Don't have to. Let me unload this place and I'm outta here," Rosemary said.

"Just like that? You know we aren't twenty years old anymore. Don't you want a little more time to think about it?"

"Nope..remember when I went to Viet Nam with you? Didn't take long to make that decision either. Montana, here come the Hippies Girls of '64!" Rosemary said.

The two women burst into gales of laughter.