The Eighth of December

lennon_glasses_for_BVCIn the fall of 1974, about a week after I had moved into on-campus housing at Sonoma State University, I walked from my apartment to the main building to check for mail, then re-traced my steps to go to my car. My route skirted the pool. Many of my classmates were enjoying the California sunshine. That early in the semester few had coursework to shackle them to their desks, and these were the days before the dire warnings of skin cancer sounded a deathknell to the fashion of getting a “healthy” tan.

Some of the people around the pool were naked. In fact, at least a third of them were. And not just around the pool. Some sprawled on the lawns. Some lounged on balconies. When I got to the parking area, I found a lovely redhead atop a towel on the low knoll not five steps in front of my car. Her birthday suit was exceptionally fine.

Halfway through my perambulation, I had begun to count. The redhead made it nineteen completely undraped females, with another fourteen merely topless. I didn’t count the men, but it must have been over twenty.

Quite a display for a bashful farm kid who had never before arriving at SSU seen a naked adult woman that he wasn’t related to, or that wasn’t on film or in a magazine. (What friendly female companionship I’d had to that point had not involved total removal of clothing.) I wonder to this day what ever became of that redhead. I don’t recall seeing her before or since. Maybe I just didn’t recognize her with her clothes on.

The point is, no one thought the nudity was radical. It was accepted. It was constant. Formal co-ed attire at that time was a pair of worn Levi cut-offs and a halter top. No shoes, no bra, not even any cosmetics. We were living the carefree, back-to-nature, high-ideals life that our older siblings in the ’60s had fought for. Except to us, those values weren’t revolutionary. They were normal.

In 1980 I was still in college, but in that era’s dorm community, the yuppie freshman girls would phone over to the campus cops to bust the last few die-hard nudists, and the freshman guys would tell me what a savior Ronald Reagan was going to be once he was elected. The zeitgeist had shifted.

I mourn for the way it used to be. I long for that mystery redhead I never had the guts to strike up a conversation with, though she gave me a dazzling smile once I managed to glance as high as her face. Seems to me my generation was in a good place. As a society, we lost something when the times they went a-changin’.

To me, the point when the pendulum gained too much speed to keep sight of the Sixties was December 8, 1980. You know what happened that night. Now here we are thirty-three years later. I have yet to feel the pendulum swinging back the other way.

I miss you, Mr. Lennon.

 

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About Dave Smeds

The latest release by Dave Smeds is the novel Piper in the Night. More about him can be found at his Book View Café page.
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6 Responses to The Eighth of December

  1. Oh Dave. Talkin’ ’bout my generation. It is my hope that the pendulum will swing back before I am too decrepit to notice it, and that my grandchildren or great-grandchildren will gleefully romp nude and long-haired across the grass.

  2. The Rodent says:

    Absolutely. I remember that night very well indeed.

  3. Alan Bard Newcomer says:

    ah, those little red-haired girls of our lost youth….

  4. Susan Cashane Savino says:

    I really loved this David. It brought tears to my eyes. I remember it well. I was living in dormland. I don’t think anyone went to class for a few days after. Beatles playing throughout dormland…I voted for Carter BTW.

  5. Oh boy, that day was a shocker. We were still reeling from the election . . .