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I grew up in the shadow of the nuclear bogeyman and the cold war. I watched enthralled as the first step was taken upon the lunar surface, while my mother refused to believe. She passed away later that year, convinced to the end that the whole display had been an elaborate hoax. My neighborhood was small town typical, complete with its retinue of colorful characters, busybodies, alcoholics and saints. Everybody had a story but no one was talking, unless it was about someone else, of course. Everyone not only knew one another's business, they also made it their business to look out for each other. As kids, we enjoyed a sense of freedom and community that is unheard of today. Today's bogeyman has settled down in every neighborhood, or so we have come to believe, and a neighborhood has become a mere collection of strangers dedicated to isolation and virtual rather than real connectivity. For many, life has become organized and focused around that hopeless little box that is its own message. Unfortunately that message seems to be one of conformity and mediocrity. And of course, never-ending consumerism. The Cleavers did not exist in our neighborhood. The Addam's Family would have been much more at home. By 1969, many small town New England neighborhoods, not unlike most of America, and Canada as well, were desperately trying to hold on to that image of wholesomeness, family values and mores that were no longer carved in stone. The world of Wally and Beaver Cleaver had already slipped away, for the most part unnoticed. Sex, drugs and rock'n'roll had become the dominant hallmarks of youth culture. Flower Power, free love, Eastern religions and all things alternative were the new order. An entire generation was finding its own voice and that voice was loud and strong and rebellious. It found expression in rock anthems and anti-war demonstrations, in sit-ins and love-ins, in half a million mud-soaked, peaceful enthusiasts at an outdoor concert on a farm in Upstate New York: an event never to be duplicated (no matter how hard the Yuppies of a later time would try). In many ways the protest generation--my generation--was no different than any other previous group of youth. Rebellion is a universal characteristic of adolescence, rejecting the values of one's parents seems to be a cultural given. Without such conflict and tension there can be no coming of age. In many ways however, coming of age in America in 1969 was certainly unique in the annals of youth rebellion. In fact, you might have to go back as far as the 1760's to find a comparable generation. In both instances, the youth of the nation were being called upon by their elders to make tremendous personal sacrifices, and all in the name of protecting freedom and democracy. It was not so easy to see the "clear and present danger" to one's own country in 1969. Being called upon to defend one's country's ideology in a war being waged 10,000 miles away in jungle swamps was not enough to enkindle patriotism in most young men. Not only that, but the whole selective service system and the Vietnam draft, arguably illegal, was in the eyes of many nothing more than a sham. It was being used as a way to manipulate the choices of millions of young men, protecting whole segments of the population with certain loopholes, while at the same time discriminating against other groups. So, if you were black or poor, or if you dropped out of high school or could not get into a college, there was a pretty good chance that you would be headed for boot camp. The draft loomed large in the life of every American between the ages of 18 and 26. Its threat was real, in the eyes of many promising a choice between imprisonment, shame and scorn on the one hand and on the other hand almost certain death or entrapment in a waking nightmare. Many found their own way out, choosing escape to Canada. I met a number of those ex-patriots in the early '70's. I remember being struck by how much we had in common. I also remember wondering about what my own response would have been, if I had been born on the other side of our friendly border. At some level, all those thoughts and feelings and wonderings were the germination for what would eventually turn into the manuscript A TIME FOR CHARITY. No wonder the boomers are nostalgic for the bad old days. At least they were interesting. Coming of age in America in 1969, if not different in kind, was certainly different in degree and arguably unique. A TIME FOR CHARITY reflects that era with an authenticity of voice and detail that an intelligent reader should expect to find in a well-written and well-researched novel. |