Mendocino 1966 by Lisu Ekberg aka Shulamit

The shadows were lengthening as the Greyhound pulled up in front of the Yorkville market for a rest stop. My stomach felt a little queasy after all the twists and turns we'd taken coming over the mountain from Cloverdale. I was longing for a 7-Up in spite of the cold November air that hit me as I stepped down from the bus.
A poster I'd seen on Haight Street had beckoned me to the Casper Art Festival this Thanksgiving weekend of 1966.
Don't get me wrong. I loved living in the Haight-Ashbury. But I just had to get out of the City, into the Redwoods, not just a jaunt over the Golden Gate Bridge to Muir Woods. I needed to be far away from sirens, cars, clanging trolleys and crowds. I wanted to smell the salt sea air of the wild Mendocino coast and stand hip deep in the forest among the giant ferns, gazing at the crashing Pacific.
The other people on the bus sure weren't city folks nor flower children like me. They were grizzled, serious, with deeply etched faces and big packages on the over-head compartments above the cushy seats. I figured they'd gone to Santa Rosa or points south to buy what was too dear on the coast or simply unavailable.
I pulled my Mexican poncho tighter around me and blew a stream of hot breath from my lips as the cold air hit me. Forget the soda. I'd get hot chocolate.
The air smelled different from San Francisco. It was moist like The City, but there was a fecund, expectant tinge to it. I could imagine mushrooms growing like little soldiers under the mulch of fallen oak leaves. Surely, these woods had to be thick with berries of all sorts in late summer.
A wizened old man was leaning against the wall under the over-hang of the market's front porch. Droplets of water formed and slowly dripped from the roof as a thick mist moved slowly by. The old man sprinkled a cigarette paper with loose tobacco, carefully rolled it tight and licked it shut. He paused, looked up at me quizzically, then lit up. The flame illuminated his face in a flash of light and the tip burned crimson. The pungent aroma teased my nose as I walked into the market.

There are a few pivotal moments in one's life. Little did I know this trip would be the beginning of one of them.

(First excerpt from THE NOT-SO-SECRET LIFE OF A FLOWER CHILD)