I was seventeen years of age during the Summer of Love—that's 1967 for the ignorant among you—and I had just dropped out of East Norton High School before the s.o.b.s kicked me out. Finding myself alone on the younger and livelier side of the Generation Gap, I did what was I was supposed to and lit out from home—Stella, Missouri, in case you're interested—and grew my hair out and wore tattered uniforms from the army surplus store in Joplin and smoked Lucky Strikes and spent my days avoiding employment, the draft, committed relationships, and anything else that smacked of responsible conduct. Eventually, I succumbed to more conventional modes of being and tried marriage, only to disappoint a series of wives who deserved better but didn't get it. At least not with me.
Now I'm trying to avoid death, the final futile effort.
In 1967, I thought about dying not at all, well, except for the terrifying prospect of getting shot to pieces in a jungle in Vietnam. I figured if Uncle Sam got too persistent, I'd just high tail it for Canada and not look back. Otherwise, I'd continue to enjoy the hedonistic opportunities ushered in by the 60s. As the poet said about another time, "Bliss it was in that dawn to be alive but to be young was very heaven." My mother, on the other hand, said, "If you run with dogs, you're gonna get fleas." Turns out that Ma was right, and at 75, I'm still picking nits. Still, I had a hell of a good time with that running pack of dogs I called my friends, and though I don't remember their names, I do remember the mischief.
We old dogs are in a tough spot. I have heard of societies that actually revere their "elders" as repositories of wisdom and guardians of tradition. Not here, not now, and sure as hell not in the United States of America—that's for sure. Today old folks are regarded as funny, if we're regarded at all: We dress funny, we smell funny, and we say funny things, not because we are witty but because we are not. We are wizened but not wise. We are not woke enough or savvy enough or technological enough to be relevant. We stand astonished on the far side of a widening canyon, watching our families and hard work and hallowed certainties drifting away from us. Oh, we thought we knew what a Generation Gap was in 1967, when we were hotboxing hooch and listening to the Doors and messing around in the way-back of the family station wagon. That Gap was a Crack compared to this Chasm.
Well, I deny my dotage and defy my irrelevance! This old dog ain't done—nosirree—and I'm learning new tricks. By God, I have a website—otisbulfinch.com—and Claude is the best friend I ever had. And I have a Substack account, too, so put that in your corncob pipe and smoke it. And who knows what else I'll do?
My name is Otis Bulfinch, and by God, I have some stories to tell.