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“Gimme Some Truth!”

Coincidentally, the classic age range of the young adult is 18-30. Those years were pretty much exactly my young adult years, 1970 through 1983. Eighteen marked the beginning of life outside the sanctuary of institutional learning, as well as my first birthday on my own, almost independent, on a ferry boat in Eastern Canada. Young adulthood pretty much ended at the age of 30, when I started my first real job as a lawyer.

“Gimme Some Truth” is a John Lennon song, on his “Imagine” album, first released in September 1971.

I loved most of that album, especially the title song; it was hard not to. I did realize right away that many of his feelings were impossible dreams that I could not wholly share, a sort of updated “All You Need is Love.” But even if it was impossible to “Imagine there’s no countries, . . . nothing to kill or die for and no religion, too,” I still spent a lot of time hoping and dreaming, and especially during the years until reality set in. It’s warmer and better to look up than down.

On my wall in Brittany, a print (licensed by the Estate of John Lennon, it says on the back) of the only verses of “Gimme Some Truth,” apparently a holdover from the Beatles “Get Back” sessions, found in John Lennon’s notebooks. “Give Me Some Truth” was the song’s original title.

So much happened during those years, it was almost crazy. I lived in three different countries and bounced around relentlessly, somehow managing to complete an extraordinary triple education: first the hippy highway, then the hippy college, and finally the hippy law school.

It’s that long young adult search that this volume of these memoirs addresses. My need to keep moving was a physical hunger, literally.

Based in Marlow from 1970 to 1974, I lived for a month or more in Harrogate, Birmingham, Oxford and London, in Vancouver BC and Banff and Edmonton Alberta, and in Cambridge, New York. I visited Brussels and Liège in Belgium, and Dunkerque and Paris in France, all by thumb. I hitchhiked and drove around the UK, Canada and the US. Commercial driving was my favorite way to earn money. I crossed Canada twice or more in a car, and the US once in a Greyhound bus, all the way from Manhattan to Los Angeles.

On and on I went, around and around, leaving wherever I was as soon as I felt comfortable heading in a new direction or uncomfortable where I was, and pausing at home in Marlow mostly to save money for tickets when I couldn’t find work elsewhere. Unemployment was almost non-existent then near home, and as mum and dad let me stay with them rent-free and use one of their cars pretty much at will, I quickly built up little nest eggs. Each nest egg fuelled another departure into my world of scruffy drifters, loud music, peculiar events, beautiful land and pretty girls.

Moving on more definitively, I lived for two years in Los Angeles (1974-6), four years in Northern California, Berkeley (from 1976 to 1979) and San Francisco (from 1982 to 1983), and three years in New Haven, Connecticut (1979-82), with one summer in New York. Each of the moves had an entirely legitimate reason, but it was never clear which came first, the move or its reason. “What a long, strange trip it’s been!”

Stories from the hippy highway start this volume of memoirs.

First comes Adrian, featuring the Rolling Stones! He attended Leeds University after Borlase’s, and settled there. In late 1970, he wrote me a letter suggesting that we get off our “idealistic arses” and form an International Peace Union. We should have. Then two different kinds of love story from Alberta, featuring Terry in one and Susan in another. Alberta was always good to me.

Then the shock: dad had a heart attack in August 1972, while I was still in Banff. Poor dad: he was only 46, and this abrupt change in his life sent ripples through the family.