Chapter Four –

There was a small camp trailer in John and Lisa’s driveway and hence our driveway that was a celebrity in its own right, always occupied by some individual with some amazing story. Jeffrey Comanor was a song writer. A couple of his compositions, “A Famous Myth” and “Tears of Joy” were picked up for the musical soundtrack of the movie Midnight Cowboy.

Jeffrey made some money on those two songs and being one of those people for whom generosity knows no limits blew through all of it the following year and ended up living in the trailer. He figured that he had developed a method and could always do it again and in fact he did, turning his attention to disco and composing songs like “We’ll Never Have to Say Goodbye Again” for Hall and Oates. But for now he lived in the trailer and we became friends.

The Red Whale was a sagging building on pilings, long past its prime. It had closed for a while and was re-opened by a flamboyant gay couple. The floors sloped and wobbled underfoot giving the impression that at any moment the whole structure might collapse onto the tide flats. The only toilet drained directly out a pipe in the floor onto those tide flats, a concept of sewage treatment shared by the houseboats at Gate Five in Sausalito. The smell at low tide was stomach turning to the uninitiated. After a while though the smell came to be normal.

Local talent occasionally tried out new stuff at the Red Whale. Word around town had it that some locals would be performing and Ted, Jeffrey and I wandered down to have a beer. Jerry Garcia came in holding a banjo case followed by some others I didn’t recognize, one of whom turned out to be mandolin virtuoso David Grisman. He took the mandolin where it had never been. The vote was unanimous. The little group needed to put out a record, which they did under the moniker Old and in the Way. Some time later Jan and I saw David Grisman perform at the Great American Music Hall with Stephan Grapelli, a violinist who played with Django Reinhardt a few decades prior.

Ted often landed at Gate Five, Sausalito. Gate Five was a place on the tide flats where a collection of PT boats, houseboats and other assorted watercraft were parked as squatters. Periodically the sheriff would attempt to cut them loose but they were immediately back in place. Gun nuts and rock stars lived at Gate Five. A pack of dogs patrolled the parking lot frightening off outsiders.

The resident band at Gate Five was the Red Legs the guitarist for whom, Joe Tate, had evolved into a community leader of sorts. They played for frequent parties on a old beached ferryboat. For a while they became the house band at the Old Mill Tavern in Mill Valley. Being Mill Valley anyone from Van Morrison to John Cipollina might join the show.

The Gate Five dog pack was getting out of hand. A large dog, half Airedale and half Great Dane, had assumed the alpha position. This dog was truly intimidating. He didn’t bother to bark. He would snarl and show a row of enormous sharp teeth. One day he bit somebody and somebody killed the dog with a knife and stuck its head on a stake at the head of the dock. All the dogs grew timid. They’d walk by looking up at the big dog’s head and pull their tails between their legs.

When I entered the ward Lisa and Mrs Paynter were seated at a table, a thousand puzzle pieces spread out. Lisa had just begun assembling them. She looked at a piece, scanned the table, picked up a piece and put them together. Then she did it again and again. Within minutes the puzzle was taking shape. It was done by noon.

There was a larger group of younger kids, as young as two and as old as six, that were all verbal but showed tendencies toward autism. They numbered at various times between six and ten children. One of these kids, Douglass, was sitting on my lap, going through things that I pulled out of my pockets including a Swiss Army knife. Douglass seemed distracted as I pulled out the blades and named them, large knife, small knife, phillips screwdriver, flat head screwdriver, scissors, file, tweezers and tooth pick. When I finished Douglass wanted me to do it again which I did, naming each item. Douglass seemed more interested in everything else going on in the room. When I finished he asked “The tooth pick?” I had neglected to pull the toothpick out and name it.

Lisa’s fits came every week or so. She’d whine a wavering, nerve wracking note, stop, whine louder and louder and then scream, throw things, pull at her hair, biting, kicking, hitting and scratching at anyone or anything in sight.

By grabbing her from the back crossing her arms in front of her body, holding her left hand in my right hand and vice versa and wrapping my legs around hers so she couldn’t kick, I could mostly immobilize her. She could still flail her head but if I moved my head in unison with hers the blows were softened.

In contrast, she showed extended eye contact and sometimes bashfully touched my beard or elbow or wanted to look through my belongings. Frequently she walked to the door and babbled as though trying to talk.

As of June, 1972, I had been at Langley Porter for five months.

Lisa is eating lunch. She finishes and grabs my hand, pulling toward the door and says “Na nan a”

Do you want the key?”

“Ne Ha”

“Key”

“Ne ha”

“You’re saying ne ha”

“Ne ha ha”

Aug 18th, I spent the afternoon with Lisa playing games that were simple for her. About five in the afternoon she became agitated and reverted to her bed. I sat by her and she pushed away. “Go away” “Go awa” “Okay”. She gradually started to attack, digging nails, whining. She lead me to a back room where she took out her suitcase. “Do you want to go home?” “Home?” ”No you can’t do that.” She whined, stuck things in cracks, screamed, sat quietly, scratched, howled, kicked and then took my hand with extended eye contact. I took a break for dinner and upon returning was told that her fit ended as soon as I left. It started again when I returned but soon mellowed into her making sounds and me imitating them, which seemed to give her great joy.

When I entered the ward on August 20th Lisa was fighting with Mrs. Sorrel who was screaming “You little spoiled brat.” Lisa had knocked the waste basket in the hall over three times.

When Lisa stopped I sat with her which seemed to start her again. I and a nurse dragged her kicking and screaming to a side room where she dug her nails into my arm. I attempted to hold her and relax at the same time. She stopped and we both continued to relax.

Robbie, like Lisa, would find comfort in obsessing over something and as time progressed there would be a blow up. It seemed as though the longer the obsessing the bigger the blow up.

Miss Rittas, Robbie’s nurse, decided that Robbie shouldn’t hear Zorba the Greek because of growing symptomatic behavior. Every time he went to the play room he’d lead someone to the record machine, was denied, screamed, stamped his feet and threw a hexing fit.

On Tuesday Lisa was relaxed. We played on the slide. She said “go”, we’d slide down, then “more fun” and we’d go back to the top. She took my hand, I pulled her up, she sat on my lap and noticed things that I’d name, sometimes repeating the name. She’d say “go” and we’d slide again. The last ride we stopped, she turned and put her forehead to mine looking into my eyes. She smiled and looked away.

Things started to fall apart as the day progressed. Lisa peed her pants three times when left alone or was approached abruptly. She recklessly ran and threw things, laughing hysterically. This made some of the nurses angry. They felt she was capable of controlling herself and was acting out on purpose. At days end she was playing “more fun”. She remained under the covers for about ten minutes, then got up with all the blankets over her head, walked to the bathroom, sat on the toilet with her pants on and with a forced laugh peed. I chased her around the ward as she ripped off all her cloths. She bumped her head accidentally on a door and had a screaming, kicking attack on anyone near. After a few minutes, she was fine.

On Tuesday Lisa had no toilet problems. She said “bafroom” when she needed to go. On Thursday Robbie was upset because he was still not being allowed to hear Zorba. Had a bad fit for Robby which seemed to anger Lisa who kicked Linda. The group had to be split up.

Lisa ran up the hall and a thought crossed my mind. “I hope she doesn’t go for the fish tank”. Sure enough she turned right and grabbed the fish tank tipping it over slightly. She looked directly at me returned it to upright and continued on her way.

Had she read my mind? The possibility popped up frequently. Maybe some of the kids were reading subconscious cues… or maybe they were reading thoughts. We all learned that if you don’t want something to happen, don’t think it.

There was a moment when Lisa had the tank on its edge when she seemed to be layering thoughts. Is this right? Is this going too far? What about the man looking at me? What about the fish? And she made the right choice.

Langley Porter operated under the auspices of the University of California. It was a research facility. Occasionally faculty or graduate students would gain access to observe and conduct research. I continued videotaping, sometimes things that I thought were pertinent and sometimes things that students or faculty were wanting, 

Lisa and I continued sharing lunch in the safety of a private room. We’d open up and talk — single words and objects. I videotaped some of these sessions and shared them with the staff, trying to demonstrate the potential of repetition. There was a growing interest in Lisa and I learned that she was to be given an IQ test.

Lisa and I walked to a lab down the hall and took a seat at a table. I had previously set up a video camera and pushed the start button. The test began with logic and sequencing problems that didn’t involve words. In the simplest form, 2 bottles, 4, 6 bottles, what’s next. 2 bottles, 4, 8 bottles what’s next. She flew through the problems.

She came to a section in which twenty-five small blocks are to be arranged to match patterns in a book. Lisa began by looking at all six sides of a block and verifying that all blocks are the same. The test began and she arranged the twenty-five blocks to match a page, five down and five across. The page was then turned to reveal a different pattern and Lisa quickly arranged the blocks to match. The third page she arranged them all wrong. I figured she was toying with us. But then she grabbed the group of twenty-five blocks on the ends with her hands and forearms and flipped them over and they matched. She had calculated that fewer changes were needed if she assembled them upside down. She flew through the entire test like that. The people administering the test looked at the stopwatch periodically in disbelief.

The results were presented in the forum of graduate thesis readings in the main auditorium. Lisa had been given a non-verbal form of the Stanford Bennet IQ test where problems involving words had been altered or omitted. She scored the highest IQ ever recorded.

Halloween night of 1972 I was wrapping up the Nuba film at a studio in Sausalito. Saul Rouda, a local film maker, had set up an editing suite at one end of an old waterfront warehouse complete with a mu tea and popcorn kitchen and living area. Joe Holly, a sculpture who had rented the remainder of the warehouse dropped in and asked Saul and me “You guys want to go to a party?”

Being halloween we needed costumes. Looking down a row of display remnants in the warehouse Joe pulled down a foam object that looked like one of the pillars from Stonehenge. It was six feet long and hollow in the middle. Joe pulled it over his head and completely disappeared inside.

There were two other identical foam objects. We cut eye holes in them and off we went in Joe’s truck to a mansion on California Street. “These folks are supporters of the arts” Joe said. We arrived on the porch hidden inside the foam pillars and were admitted to great laughter. We milled around for a while and won the costume contest, then took off the foam pillars, Joe shopped a couple of film scrips around and we left.

We arrived at a large warehouse in the Mission District, an artists cooperative called Project Artaud, where we donned the foam pillars and headed up a broad flight of steps. Climbing from step to step was not an easy task considering that among other things one could barely see one’s feet or bend one’s knees. Once upstairs we were in a large ballroom where a band played and hundreds of people danced. In the center of the dance floor we became objects of fun, being pushed and bounced from person to person. Inside the foam, we were protected.

We were ultimately hoisted into the air horizontally above the crowd and passed, hand to hand, down the stairwell to the first landing and around the corner and down another flight to the ground floor where we gladly extricated ourselves from the foam and called it an evening.

From a childhood in reform schools and prisons Ode graduated into the merchant marines. He was full of fantastic stories many of which seemed implausible. But Ode had no reason to exaggerate. He truly did have encounters with giant dragon lizards in Indonesia. He told a story of carrying a large bag of money through Hong Kong, a 45 strapped to his hip, accompanied by a friend who was 6’10, terrifying the local population with their size and guns, which seemed unbelievable until his 6’10” friend showed up for a visit.

Ode’s sources of income were a bit of a mystery though he shared a few stories. He read a book about how to fly an airplane and took a couple of lessons… then rented an airplane from an acquaintance in Arizona and smuggled a load of pot from Mexico that he had previously purchased and buried in the desert. I initially doubted the story but there was no other explanation considering the quantity of money that seemed to follow him around

“You know why you’re living?” he said. “You’re living to experience life. It’s your duty.” He mastered the art of bird calls and would whistle elaborate trills followed with a dissertation. “Yellow wing-ed thrush. Near the nest. Spring.” He had a whole assortment, probably all fictitious, but not necessarily. One never knew.

Ode moved up to Sonoma and enrolled at Sonoma State. He started a film club on campus. He was not only the president and the treasurer, he was the only member. He projected old movies in the auditorium to community members for a couple of bucks. On Friday nights the auditorium was full of old folks watching Bogey and Bacall and Ode made an easy hundred bucks. Until the administration put a stop to it.

He lived in small house in the middle of a dairy farm. A phone pole stood next to his house. Ode climbed the pole one night with an old phone and poking around managed to get a dial tone. He ran a wire to his house but he could only call out not knowing the number. Until the day his phone rang. It was a wrong number. “What number do you think you might have dialed?” From then on he had a free phone.

Ode drove a Citroen 2CV. It weighed a little over a thousand pounds and had a two cylinder 16 hp engine. The original 2CV, was supposedly stamped out of wrecked airplanes in post WWII France. It had hammocks for seats and springs made out of rubber bands and a loud 8 track stereo.

The Citroen would go anyplace. Late one evening Ode and I were driving on one of the foot paths in Golden Gate Park, as Ode often did. He plugged in an 8 track tape. It took a few minutes for the tape to find its beginning. We continued on in silence with the lights turned off. We came upon a young man walking on the path. Ode stopped next to him and spoke through the open roof.

“How’s it goin’?”

“Fine.”

“Beautiful evening.”

As we drove on the Doors came to life. “People are strange when you’re a stranger, faces look ugly when you’re alone. Women seem wicked when you’re unwanted, streets are uneven when you’re down.”

On another occasion we were driving on one of the Golden Gate Park thoroughfares at forty miles per hour when he suddenly turned the wheel hard to the right, directly into a row of small trees. The trees bent completely over and lowered the Citroen down a bank to the field six feet below. We made a loop and headed back up the bank as fast as the little 2CV would go up onto the row of trees until they bent under the weight of the car and lowered us back onto the street.

Ode had removed the hood and the Citroen looked very little like a real car. He and I were driving to Sacramento on highway 80, bucking a mild headwind, barely reaching forty miles per hour, Hendrix once again blasting from the 8 track deck. Ode was rolling a joint in his lap as he drove. Then it happened. The California Highway Patrol. Ode pulled a handful of pot from the bag and ate it, handing the rest to me and I ate what was left.

Ode had made the Citroen’s license plate in metal shop at San Jose State College while attending school there. It was enameled metal, in the shape of an oval with an “N” to the left and some numbers to the right. Ode’s father was Norwegian and “close enough” he said. The cop first asked to see identification and Ode handed him his California driver’s license and a business card. He then spoke with a thick Norwegian accent. “I have a California license, you see here, yes but I am only in dis country for a short time.”

The cop was young and new at his work. “What kind of a car is this?”

“Ya, dats a Disraeli Ford, dee only car made in Israel.”

“What’s with this license plate?”

“Ya, dats my Norveeegian plates. You see I’m only in dis country for a short time and…”

“You have a California drivers license and an Israeli car and you’re Norwegian?”

“Ya, vell you see, I vas here in dis country in August last year. Dats my drivers license. But den I vent home and…”

“Yeah yeah yeah. Wait here.” The cop went back and got into his car and Ode stepped out and leaned against the Citroen. After what seemed like an eternity the cop returned with a small black book. First he checked the table of contents. Then he checked through one chapter a page at a time. Then another.

“You aren’t going to find anything in there”, Ode said with slightly less accent.

“Just stop talking please”. The half ounce of pot was beginning to take effect.

“Stop talking? Does my talking bother you?” Ode’s demeanor was becoming less conciliatory.

“What?” the cop said.

By now Ode had abandoned the accent and inflated his chest. “I mean, look at you. What the hell difference does it make”. An intimidating figure, Ode looked at the cop with a blank expression.

“Are you getin’ tough with me?” the cop said.

“I wouldn’t get tough with you, you’ve got a gun”. The Norwegian accent was now gone altogether.

The cop stood motionless and speechless. What was he thinking? Should he ask for backup? Should he call and explain this situation to one of his superiors? Ultimately he closed the book, returned to his car and drove off.

On another occasion Ode and I drove out to Muir Beach in the Citroen. We drove through the gravel parking lot to the end, turned around and started back out. The sound of a small rock hitting the side of the car was barely audible. Ode stopped abruptly backed up, stopped again and stepped out of the car. A dozen people were lined up sitting on a log. “OK” Ode said “Who did it?” No replies. “OK then, who wants it?” Once again no replies. He walked to the guy sitting farthest on the left and said “Do you want it?” The guy looked terrified and said nothing. Ode walked down the line threatening each person individually. He calmed down and got back into the car and underway. I never mentioned the little kid I had seen sneaking through the parking lot behind the terrified crowd.

Sam lived in a cabin south of town overlooking the beach, one of a group of cabins that were built during WWII for soldiers manning gun emplacements. The cabins were rented out by the government after the war for a nominal fee. Families that picked up the leases held onto them and Sam’s family happened to be one of the lucky few.

The cabins had good water but no electricity. The septic systems were somewhere between inadequate and nonexistent but never a noticeable problem. A 45 gallon water heater hung on its side over a cast iron wood fired cook stove. Sam could light a fire in the morning for heat and cooking and end up with hot water to boot.

Sam was an artist. He painted during the day by sunlight and at night with a combination of gas and kerosine lamps. A couple of women came and went with some regularity. He was a charming fellow.

There was little beach in front of his cabin, mostly big rocks with big waves breaking over them. Sam would hop from rock to rock with his poke pole, a 20 foot long bamboo pole with a short monofilament tied to the end sporting a baited hook. A person sticks the end of the pole into holes among the rocks. The biggest cabezon and lingcod are caught like this.

One day Sam was hopping around on the rocks and came across a partially eaten and decomposed human body dressed in what was left of an expensive suit. While attempting a recovery, the head separated from the body. Sam boiled it and removed all but bone.

He made his way into town and called the Sheriff. When they got to the body the Sheriff asked “You seen the head?”

“I’ll keep and eye out.” Sam chuckled. The skull made a nice addition to Sam’s mantel. He used it as a model for some of his paintings. After a couple of weeks he called the sheriff again. “Hello Sheriff? I found the head.”

Jim and I met up in Santa Cruz. “Are you on leave? I asked.

“No, I’m done”. He went on to explain how volunteering to go into the army didn’t save him from combat as he had hoped. Due to his precocious nature, Jim found himself as a sergeant leading an infantry platoon comprised of young men who had been in Vietnam a while. His first morning he found a hand grenade under his bunk. The pin was still in place but the message was clear. It could easily have been pulled. “Fragging” had become a method of getting rid of officers subjecting men to undue risk.

The platoon was assigned a mission through thick undergrowth. He knew it was going to be a bad day and sent one of his buddies to town for supplies. Sure enough, they were ambushed. Everyone was killed except Jim who spent months in the hospital. He learned years later the attack was from friendly fire.

Jan’s mother, Mac, had a friend named Sally Stanford who was a perennial candidate for the Sausalito City Council. She finally won in 1972 and then turned her efforts toward becoming mayor.

Mac invited Jan and I to a party at Sally’s house, a mid-sized Victorian surrounded by grapes and gardens, closer to Napa than Sausalito. The gathering might have been considered a fund raiser if Sally needed any funds which didn’t appear to be the case. A young woman named Christine played keyboards and sang on a small patio outside the kitchen.

While talking with her during a break Christine mentioned that she had recently joined the band Fleetwood Mac. I would have characterized her playing as folk music accompanied by keyboard. She was outstanding but her sound was antithetical to Fleetwood Mac, a thrashing blues rock sound. This would never work.

A mean monkey was knocking over drinks and throwing things at the guests. A small burro and several other animals wandered outside. Sally was a big hearted soul who would take in any creature in need. In the 1940s she ran a high-end brothel in San Francisco, said to be the place where the United Nations was conceived.

Growing weary, I wandered into the vineyard where I found a bench and was soon asleep. A while into my slumber my face felt brushed with warm, damp air. Upon opening my eyes I was looking into the face of the most enormous pig that ever lived.

March of 1973 Pigpen, the organist and singer for the Grateful Dead, died of liver failure. Alcohol once again.

In the fall of 1973 Jan and I saw the Wailers perform at a bar in San Francisco called the Matrix. The Matrix had been a bar on Fillmore Street where the Jefferson Airplane and other local bands started out in the mid sixties. The club closed and re-opened for a while on Broadway. It was a larger venue but still small enough that I was able to stand next to the stage. Bob Marley, the shaman, came out reeling under the influence of something. He sat front and center and beat a huge drum. Boom boom boom. Over and over. He sang with his head facing upward, veins throbbing in his neck. On the bass, Bunny Wailer played holes inside of notes, spaces between beats. Peter Tosh adeptly wove brilliant melodies and guitar riffs, singing like a bird. The show was a hypnotic collective trance.

When I passed through the door Lisa ran, jumped on the bed and hid a smile behind her hair. As I approached, she sat up smiling and said “key” perfectly. She put her hand over her mouth making baba sounds, a sort of greeting.

On July 21st Lisa was upset during the morning, threatening several fits. At 2:30 she demanded that I take her to the kitchen. I stopped at the door and asked if she’d like some grapes showing her one from my lunch.

“Ma ma baba”

“Some”

“Omba”

“Some”

“Aba”

Some, oba, ssss, hishssaba and so on for nearly an hour. I gave her two grapes for improvement and one for trying. Eventually she said “thomba”.

I came to her bed and said “May I see your thing (a toy)? She pushed my hand away. I placed my hand gently on it and said “Lisa. Say no.”

“No”. I took my hand away. About two minutes later I reached for it again. “No”. I took my hand away again and this time she laughed.

On July 23rd we played the grape game and she got “some” very well. During lunch Lisa said “more” holding up her glass. Mrs. Serrel gave her some milk. Later she offered her more and Lisa answered “No”.

On August 10th Lisa and I played the “no” game. I’d grab her things and she’d say “no”. She said it well and often. In spite of her increased use of words, her fits continued. The patterns remained largely unchanged. She’d become increasingly agitated, like she was starting to boil inside. Then at some point the kettle would blow.

I was restraining her in the accustomed way, holding her from the back with her arms crossed and said to her “Lisa, you’re mad”.

Her struggles ceased and she repeated the word “Mad”.

On August 13th I spent the day with Lisa and we talked a lot. Mostly “no” but sometimes attempts at “yes”. At the grape game she now easily said “wan some geep”.

On August 17th, Lisa had fits all day. She’d sometimes walk around a corner and rather than turning 90 degrees to the left or right would spin 270 degrees the opposite way, as if keeping track of all turns and keeping them balanced as if turning either way twice would wrap her up.

One of my jobs was videotaping speeches by Dr. Zurich, the director of Langley Porter. This gave me direct access to him. After one of these video sessions I mentioned Lisa.

“I’ve been noticing that if I withhold things from her she’ll ask for them with words. It seems like if we would all do that she’d start talking. Nothing fancy. Just single words.”

“Yes I’m aware of what you’ve been up to. A form of behavior modification, the carrot and stick method. Who knows. People are a lot more complex than Pavlov’s dogs. That said, Langley Porter is a research facility. We want to keep all doors open and keep an eye on what naturally occurs. We don’t use any drugs because we want the children to display their symptoms. We also don’t use drugs because they wouldn’t do these kids any good.”

After some time he continued. “I’d caution you not to become too attached to the four kids with whom you spend most of your time, Lisa, Robbie, Linda and Sheryl. The door has closed on those children.” A sadness came over Dr. Zurich. It was assumed that Jon and Steve would someday move into a life outside of the state system. The same assumptions applied to the youngest group. But the middle group were in for life.

“So the wires are crossed?” I inquired?

Dr. Zurich looked momentarily dumbfounded. “No wires. There’s more going on than electricity. It’s like we’re loading consciousness in stages and if we skip a stage we can’t take a step back.”

We talked some more. Language is a funny thing. We can shape our mouths and surrounding areas to make specific sounds. Lips rounded, lips slotted and so on back to the throat. We can arrange these things in ways to communicate with others of our species.

Our individual development is formed in specific stages, like building a box. Language would be one of the last sides to the box. If it goes on differently the box is complete but not like other boxes. These things happen suddenly, like they’re driven by some unseen force.

In conversation we hear many sounds and learn to eliminate most. The word “for” for example contains the “f” sound where we place our lower lip against our upper teeth, then the “o” and “r” sounds. There are sounds between that we learn to overlook. Whereas most people are hearing one vowel and two consonants, someone like Lisa might be hearing three vowels and five consonants. Pronounced differently there’s a whole new batch. We know what to import and what to leave behind. An autistic person leaves little behind.

Lisa was a year older than the other three in her group. I wondered if she might be of an age when she should have been moved to custodial care. Might Dr. Zurich and the staff have become attached to Lisa and reluctant to let her go?

September 8th was the beginning of a very good week. Lisa was glad to see me every day and engaged everyone on a good level.

Tuesday we played a game with some parachutes, similar to “more fun”. I’d wrap her up, pick her up, rock around and make heart beat sounds and drop her on her bed. She’d  claw her way out, laugh and say “roll me up” or other things. She’d hum songs to herself all day, recognizable tunes and several times relax for a half hour, examining my elbow and wanting to be cuddled.

On August 27th. Mrs. Lawton was with Lisa. Things went well until Mrs. Lawton took her “thing” away because of something Lisa had done and Lisa scratched her. The slightest stress would provoke Lisa to find an object. She’d keep the object for a while and then either go to sleep or have a fit. Before a fit she’d throw the object away. Immediately after a fit she’d do well and not need another object until she experienced stress.

It was as if objects had displaced some emotional component. Perhaps in her early development she denied human attachments, substituting objects for human interaction. Perhaps it was a way of punishing or evading a parent. Perhaps it worked in infancy but now as she matured the transfer was failing her.

It sometimes seemed like a metamorphosis was waiting to break out. At other times it was clear this would never happen. Words were painful. They held no reward. Revisiting the mescaline and psilocybin trip, the smiling Hare Krishnas in white robes, at one point I couldn’t understand English language. Voices were playing in reverse. Is this what autism is like? Do words get scrambled coming in? Does Lisa not form thoughts in words? Does she have no internal voice?

What does this question say about the nature of consciousness? We form our conscious thoughts in words. But consciousness is more than internal words. There’s joy, love, fear, anger, compassion… all the emotions and qualities that characterize consciousness. None of these necessarily entail words and all of them are present in Lisa, Robbie, Sheryl and Linda. Maybe the solution is to not look for a solution.

Tuesday we went camping. Lisa explored, ran off, wet her pants and led people around by the hand. Sheryl was happy. Linda had a cold. Robbie stumbled around looking lost.

Wednesday was cold which caused anxiety among the kids. Lisa whined when prevented from going into the sun. In the sun she relaxed and played in the dirt. I’d hand her objects which she accepted. She’d make sounds that I’d imitate. The last sound was always attended with a smile and giggle and sometimes a hug. We went for a walk. She was curious about everything, picking up bark, looking up at trees, touching everything, walking quickly, along the trail pigeon toed. I grew tired. Miss Greenwood and Lisa did the same until Greenwood was exhausted, then it was Miss Pernstiener’s turn. Then mine again and the others, all day long. Sheryl and Charles, a long haired graduate student, were frequently together, Sheryl happier than ever. Lots of eye contact, smiling laughing, hugging.

Charles, who was visiting from Chicago, talked softly by the light of the campfire. He reiterated that if a child doesn’t talk by five, they never will. We usually give up on kids over five. They go to custodial institutions. Four staff to 16 kids. By ten, they’re locked into lifelong patterns. I told him that four months ago Lisa couldn’t say a single word. He replied that her ability to say a few words will no doubt improve her quality of her life. But she will never engage in a conversation. We also spoke about Sheryl, Linda and Robbie and our war mongering government.

Miss Paynter had a real feeling for the kids. She followed their lead, doing what they wanted to do if she could. On this night she spelled words in clay and Lisa seemed to learn their meaning readily. We began to wonder if the problem wasn’t specifically spoken words. Maybe images of words are the way to break through.

Lisa was talking a lot. She chattered on and on getting a lot of laughs out of everyone. We all slept well. At dawn Charles and I built a fire.

“You know what I think” he said. “These kids are obviously capable of forming abstract thought. They’re wonderful kids if you give them a chance.”

“Perhaps there’s a way” I replied ”that the most severely impacted children can live in peace as they grow. Perhaps they’ll end up in a place that protects them and allows them to find that peace. They see things the rest of us don’t see.”

Thursday, our last day camping, Lisa slept in till the sun came up then quickly ate and found a sunny spot to play in the dirt. She lead me on a walk, exploring details along the way. Charles, Lawton, Ritas and all the others agreed the trip was a success. Sheryl and Linda were more attentive than ever. Linda with the slightest encouragement would baby act the tunes to songs she knew. Sheryl was all smiles and agreeable. Robbie spent much of his time hexing the blue jays.

August 31 and September 1st, Monday and Tuesday, were both good days. Monday Lisa was very receptive. I spent the afternoon with Steve who was upset because Jon imitated him. They’d undergone a bit of a split.

Jon was the personal project of a nurse named Kris. Every day she worked with him on basic skills. These skills included relaxing in the presence of another person. They often sat together reading and laughing. Jon became more like any other kid every day.

He entered pubic school part time and shot through the curriculum. He took university level classes through UC and flew through those. He mastered calculus in two weeks. Then Ms. Kris proposed that she adopt Jon. After some discussion with his parents the word was no. M. Kris for personal reasons never conveyed, quit and was gone. Jon returned to his old self, bouncing down the hall on one foot.

Jon would sometimes say “I’m going to give you the bite” which would cause people to run. I wondered for a while what “the bite” was. Then I learned. It was a gentle bite to the corner of the jaw, perfectly placed to cause salivation.

Steve’s mom visited from time to time. She had an affected British accent and chain smoked cigarettes. Steve wanted to move home. His mom said that he grew bored at home and missed the hospital. Steve denied this and found the claim upsetting.

Monday night shift. Lisa, Steve and I were together starting to play a game when Lisa threw the game off the table. Then she knocked over a chair. I figured: “Go for it”. She knocked over other chairs and cleared a table of stuff. A nurse dragged her out by the arm. After a while she came back. Said she was OK. Lisa sat on my lap correctly throwing the dice. After the game she touched Steve on the shoulder, a gesture of affection.

When entering the bathroom Lisa was humming a not quite recognizable tune, as she often did, and I recognized it and started hummed along. She laughed, kept humming and soon we came together in tune. She smiled.

On Tuesday Miss Paynter was with Lisa. She said “Lisa go get Linda for dinner” Lisa did it. Miss Paynter, Greenwood and Pernsteiner played talking games with her. She repeated words but still had a small usable vocabulary: no, key, bathroom, peanut, grape and occasionally the word mad.

Steve continued assuming dramatic characters, everything from Bela Lugosi to Lon Chaney Jr. to Dr. Zachary Smith. He employed an assortment of puppets, anything from a rag doll to a piece of paper. He projected different personalities for different people

There were days when Lisa was attentive and friendly and days when she’d either refuse to get under the covers for bed or refuse to come out from under the covers, wearing them over her head to the breakfast table.

Monday. Lisa was engaged all day. There was a party for Steve. Lisa couldn’t get to bed though she frequently expressed that desire. When she did, she humped a blanket giggling. Was Lisa maturing into a young woman? What kind of a world would that be? At least she knows how to say “no”. Her fits were becoming few and far between and not self hurtful.

What could we do to better meet their needs? In the case of Lisa it may be simple verbal communication. No, baffroom, want some, key. In the case of Robbie, Linda and Cheryl, maybe we could use symbols, flash cards or note pads. Maybe if we could better explore and understand their world, we could make it a little better.

And then it was over. I returned to visit the ward a week after leaving and had dinner with Steve and Jon. “What’re you doing here?” asked Jon.

“Just visiting”

Steve laughed “When I get out of here, I’m never coming back.” I decided to take his advice.

Steve and Jon would probably go home to their families before too long. But Robbie, Linda, Sheryl and Lisa – I couldn’t stop imagining the day when officers of the State would come to move the children from what had been their home. The sadness was more overwhelming than I realized at the time.

In November of 1973, all in the same month, I completed my service, I was too old to be drafted and the draft ended. It had been a ten year struggle. I was free to do what ever I wanted for the first time in my life.

A typical day consisted of rising early and going for a walk. Sometimes I’d walk up the canyon and sit on top of the big rock looking out over the ocean. Sometimes I’d walk south along the beach to a hot springs, tide permitting. Or neighbor John would show up. “Hey, time to go fishing.” Down to the beach we’d go, out on to the rocks, the surf pounding at our feet.

I might head over to Gate Five to visit friends. Meanwhile, Jan would go to work at the Post Office and ask patiently: “How long are you planning on being a bum?”

Neighbor Lisa Kindred had big bluesy voice. John was a guitar virtuoso, a teacher of guitar. He could play any style of music and sometimes joked about the “county/blues” genre he found himself pursuing with Ascension. They played four nights each week in clubs in North Beach, wrangling their own gear, usually not leaving a club till three AM.

Jeffrey moved out of John and Lisa’s trailer and Fred immediately moved in. A few years previously Fred had signed on to help deliver a sailboat. He arrived in Ecuador with $20 in his pocket and the boat and its people were nowhere to be found.

Meanwhile Che Guevara had been waging revolution in Bolivia and employees of the German equivalent of the Red Cross had more sense than to leave their office. Fred was raised in Germany and spoke fluent German. He was employed to impersonate these employees and spent the next year going from village to village, handing out everything from water wells to medicine, a job he thoroughly enjoyed.

Just how he ended up broke and living in a tiny trailer was never made clear. He had no address, no mail box, no phone number, he paid no bills. It was a perfect arrangement for someone wanting to hide.

Fred, Richard, John, Fiberglass Bob and I drove a VW bus to the mine in Trinity. We stopped in Redding for a late lunch at a Chinese restaurant. John stayed behind. He didn’t like the idea of Chinese food in Redding. Said he’d “get something at the store.”

Upon returning to the bus we found John sitting on the back seat, an empty meat wrapper on the floor of the car at his feet. The label read “Round steak. Point 97 pounds”

“Oh my god” Richard laughed. “You ate a pound of raw steak?”

John grinned slightly in a way that showed his big canine teeth still laced with traces of blood.

The dirt road leading out of French Gulch was in better shape than the old days. Some of the hard rock gold mines had been re-activated by speculators. Near the end of the line at Eastman Gulch we came upon one such mine. Several jeeps and trucks lined the road near an old cabin. Someone on the porch waved and stepped forward.

“You guys lost?”

“No” I replied. “I used to come up here when I was a kid. We had a mine up the road.”

“The old placer mine?”

“Yeah. We’re going to camp there for a day or two.”

“Well, you should get moving before dark but why don’t you guys come by this evening. Eat some chow. Drink a few beers. Maybe shoot something.”

We set up camp at the old mine and returned to the neighbors as darkness set in. Over roasted hot dogs, beer and ganja the conversation turned to the Vietnam War.

Two months prior, on the morning of April 28th, 1973, boxcars loaded with bombs began detonating in a railroad yard in Roseville, California near Sacramento. They continued exploding until the following afternoon. More than 6000 bombs loaded with high explosives ultimately blew up. One hundred and sixty nine boxcars were destroyed. Buildings as far as a half mile away were damaged. Minor damage extended as far as three miles. Remarkably, no-one was killed.

“Fuck the war” one of the miners proclaimed.

“You guys blow up a lot of dynamite?” John asked.

“That’s what we do.”

“You guys know anything about the Roseville train?” John smiled.

Silence.

“Whoever blew up that train,” John continued, “is a hero. Thousands of bombs that won’t be dropped out of airplanes on people just trying to live. Alive one minute. Not alive the next.”

John ultimately called to inform me that he’d gotten married. “Big shot lawyer wants my seeds” he said. “Says she likes my good looks and innate intelligence but I can keep the rest.” We had a good laugh.

To everyone’s shock and surprise, Ode found a steady female companion. He and Sue lived on the slough across from San Quentin Prison in a house that once belonged to the warden. A board next to the front door used to hold keys. The labels were still in place. One of them read “gas chamber”.

Ode offered up some blond hashish. Then we went for a sail in Ode’s little boat. We tacked past San Quentin, coming close to the prison loading dock. There was no fence or gate or any obstruction of any kind between the little boat and the convicts. The wind was nearly calm and we moved slowly. Prisoners lined the dock. Sue sat on the cabin top, leaning back on her hands so that her chest took a position of prominence. She wore only a long lightweight blouse.

Sue’s ample breasts were at the moment immaterial. All I could see was guards in the towers with machine guns watching our every move. Prisoners paced the dock a few feet away. “Oh babe. You’re so fine. Just give me the time babe. The place. I’ll show you a good time.” Ode found the whole thing entertaining. This was something he and Sue did with some regularity.

Out in the bay the winds built into a virtual hurricane. The gaff on the top of the mainsail broke in half leaving us adrift. The little boat had a yard arm and square sail that Ode rigged up and away we sailed under the square sail, beating our way back past San Quentin at a blistering pace.

Ode’s next boat was  P-Cat, a nineteen foot catamaran. He, myself and Paul Z took off in the boat from Sausalito in strong winds. We were, leaping through waves at a blistering pace, hiking out on trapezes. Coming about we had to unhook the trapeze, run the width of the boat and hook up the opposite trapeze and hike out over that side. Coming about off Alcatraz Paul failed to get the trapeze hooked and when he hiked out dropped into the water. He was immediately a hundred feet behind us bobbing in his life jacket, calmly putting on his hat.

A nearby ferry boat could be seen reversing its engines. Passengers gathered at the windows. Ode and I brought the catamaran about, made our way back to Paul and fished him out of the drink.

Ode and Sue married and camped for the winter in Kalalau valley on the island of Kawaii. They then travelled to South America where they took ayahuasca with a shaman. They would drop in every month or two with some amazing story.

Then they vanished. Ode had no family to contact. I didn’t know where Sue’s family could be found. The mystery disappearance was never solved.

Jan’s patience grew thinner. Ted had come by for a visit and he and I smoked some pot. I was relaxing on the couch in the living room when Jan arrived home from work in the usual sullen, silent, angry mood. It was becoming painfully obvious that things weren’t going well.

I heard of a car for sale, a ten year old Singer Gazelle. It was in a garage in Mill Valley, not running. It had belonged to the father of the person selling it. “I don’t really want any money for it” he said. “I want it to have a good home.” I cleaned the distributor and it started right up.

I insisted “I have to pay you something. I’ll give you a hundred bucks at least.”

“Then I’ll throw in a new set of tires.” And so I got a very dandy little English sedan with cats eye burl wood trim and leather upholstery, that would cruise at a hundred miles per hour.

I decided to re-enroll in college. When I arrived at the registrar, being summer, there was a single window open and no line. The young woman at the window greeted me with an attractive smile and clear blue eyes framed in waves of strawberry blond hair. “So you’re thinking of going back to school?”

“Yes.”

“Well, you’ll have to re-apply.”

“Oh please. I’ve only been out of school for a couple of years. It wasn’t my idea to leave.” I went on to explain the two years alternative service.

“Hold on” she said and walked away. The office was silent and empty. I stood at the window for about five minutes and then watched her return… the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. “OK. I talked with the Dean of Admissions and you’re in.”

“Wow.” I said. “Things rarely happen that easily.” I collected some forms and thanked the girl with the strawberry blond hair. She had a slight accent, perhaps England or New England. “Never see her again.” I thought.

Back in Stinson Beach Jan confronted me again. “How was your trip?”

“Fine. I’m re-enrolled. Back in school.”

“Great. So, you going to somehow squeeze that in between all the fishing and surfing and bumming around with the town bums?” The passion was gone.

“Yeah, that’s going to be a challenge.”

A few weeks later I was sitting on the library steps at SF State, looking out over the center of campus, remembering the riots, the cops, the blood, the speaker’s platform, Earth Mother’s run for homecoming queen. It seemed like an eternity had passed. A tall, slender woman in her early twenties approached. She had short dark hair and wore expensive looking clothes. She stood in front of me looking left and right and said “Can you tell me where the library is?”

“How about if I show you.”

I gave her a tour of the entire library. Then I gave her a ride to Mill Valley where we each had a beer at the Old Mill Tavern. And then I went home with her. Paul Ann was living with a couple of airline stewardesses. It was a house full of beautiful women and I stayed a couple of days. One of the gals was dating Randy Moffett, the brother of tennis star Billy Jean King. He was a pitcher for the San Francisco Giants. After a game, Randy soaked his entire arm in ice for hours and we played chess.

I returned to Stinson Beach. Jan was worried sick. I told her it was over, loaded a few things in the Singer and was gone. “Four times free” I figured. “Too old for the draft, completed my service, the draft ended and I’m single.”