August 6, 1969

 

August 6, 1969, is not an unusual or historic date.

This day unveiled as any pleasant LA summer's day, beginning with the sound and scent of coffee percolating on stoves throughout the canyons — Topanga and Benedict. A day like any other day in the 60s, where people awoke in their innocence, and so took it for granted.

Sure, it was hot and steamy as August days are in LA, the Pacific Ocean waves at their warm and idyllic calm. Surfers would soon gear up to hit those frothy tubes with not a care in the world, beach goers luxuriating on the sand.

The hours on August 6 would soon fly by. Dusk fell upon the land, giving all an amber glow. Peace had rolled in with the morning tide and would roll out the same. A dreamy California day.

As far as anyone knew, there had been no gut-tearing hurt, no gushing blood, no torturous pain. No one yet feared bayonets, or cutlasses, or Buck knives, or nylon rope and leather thongs. So far, there was no need for such fear. The only concern in the City of Angels was where you had put the Noxzema to soothe your beach burn.

So far, there were only black leather high-top boots, bellbottom pants, and floral dresses worn by hippies, and Slippies, as innocent or as evil as an image could get.

The summer of '69 should have been as sublime as '68. But it wasn't, was it? We were unaware. But evil had already landed and invaded our youth. In the coming days, our innocence would shatter. A tearing of our souls we as children of the 60s are still trying to mend.

Two. More. Days. That's all we had.

No one warned us of what was to come.

Peace, love and daisy-chains be damned.

Please don't blame us, the children of the 60s. We simply never knew.