Want to hear what it was like living in San Francisco during the summer of 1969?” I asked my grown kids one night after dinner. Rocky gasped. Sarah and Jake rolled their eyes and said, “No, we’ve heard it before.” Carrie and Andy replied, “Absolutely, we don’t know anyone who lived in San Francisco in 1969, let alone our mother-in-law!” That was all I needed to hear, and so I happily began:

My best friend Betsy and I knew something big was brewing on the West Coast, specifically in San Francisco. So we collected our savings, worked out the details, and told our parents we had summer jobs and a place to live. Yes, we had a place to live, but only for a week at a friend’s house, and we didn’t exactly have summer jobs, at least not yet. Regardless, we took off for San Francisco, feeling bold and adventurous. It was the summer of love and rock ‘n roll, and Betsy and I were heading right into the thick of it. Goodbye preppy clothes; hello bell-bottoms and beads.

It didn’t take long for us to get into a San Francisco state of mind. The city was filled with young people wearing hippie glasses, peasant tops, sandals, beads, and long hair. Marijuana was plentiful and easy to get, and the music that summer was phenomenal. The Beatles, Rolling Stones, Bob Dylan, Jimi Hendrix, Janice Joplin, and the Jefferson Airplane sang about the youth movement, activism, hope, and even revolution. It was the summer of Woodstock, Neil Armstrong’s walk on the moon, the Stonewall riots, the Manson murders, the Viet Nam War, and the movie “Easy Rider.”

Betsy and I found an inexpensive, top-floor apartment at 201 Delores Street in the heart of the Mission District, settled in quickly, and established our daily routines. Betsy headed to San Francisco State University, and I walked a few blocks to catch the downtown bus to my job at the Bank of America. The bank was located at the corner of Market and Fillmore, where the trolley cars made their turn around. The bank’s lobby was lined with rows of desks, large windows, and summer staff like me working nine to five.

On my first day of work, I started a conversation with a co-worker seated to my left who showed me marks on her arm and casually said she was a heroin addict. I was speechless and felt terrible for her but couldn’t believe I was hearing this in the Bank of America. The girl was gone within a week. Another time, Betsy and I accepted an invitation to a baby shower by a person we barely knew but thought it would be nice to meet some new people. When we arrived, most of the women were dressed in biker outfits. I looked for appetizers and noticed a small dish filled with tiny red pills on the coffee table. Betsy and I caught each other’s eye, knew something didn’t feel right, and quietly slipped out the door; no one even noticed or cared. There were many first-time experiences like this living in San Francisco, and they all made me realize how naive I was.

Hitchhiking flourished as a means of transportation for young people and gave me a sense of freedom. One night I stuck out my thumb, a VW Bus pulled over, and I hopped in. Ten seats were arranged so the passengers could see each other, and I took the only seat available. We started our descent down a long curvy road, and the strangest feeling came over me as I realized things weren’t as they appeared. The lively passengers were men dressed in women’s clothes, shoes, jewelry, and makeup. I later learned they were crossdressers, a term I had never heard.

In July, Rocky Saxbe, and his SMU fraternity brother, Mark Cline, arrived in San Francisco in Mark’s VW Bus with plans to stay at a friend’s apartment. They were traveling the country before Rocky had to report for active duty in the Marines. I had only met Rocky a few times but paid little attention. The following morning Betsy called me at work and asked me to join her and some friends headed to the beach for the afternoon. Thinking it would be fun, I hopped on the Market Street bus to Delores, ran up four flights of stairs, and before I knew it, there was honking. I popped my head out of the top floor window to let them know I was on my way.

I quickly gathered my stuff and flew back down the steps to the rear of an old Army truck where someone kindly reached out an arm and pulled me up into the truck. It was Rocky Saxbe. We took off and headed to Stinson Beach. The day was magical, and before it was over, Rocky and Mark suggested I quit my tedious job at the Bank of America and spend time with them exploring the city. I was intrigued by the idea and even more intrigued by Rocky Saxbe. He was a conundrum - a Marine who wore round hippie glasses and thought the war was wrong. He appeared responsible yet had a wild streak I liked. He was also confident, focused, independent, attentive, and different from any guy I had ever known. I called the bank and quit my job.

Rocky and I spent over two weeks submerged in San Francisco’s hippie culture, partying with friends, hanging out at the beach, and going to concerts at Golden Gate Park. We were always listening to music and one night went to the famous Fillmore West to hear the Everly Brothers and Canned Heat. Unaware at the time, we were falling in love even though neither of us was looking for a relationship. I was footloose and fancy-free with no plans to settle down, and Rocky was off to fight a war.

The day came when Rocky and Mark had to head back east. We hugged and said our goodbyes, and there I was, left behind without a job, asking myself, “What was I  thinking, and why on earth would I be so irresponsible?” But the summer of ‘69 and the days spent with Rocky changed my life forever. I happened to be in the right place at the right time when Rocky reached out his hand and pulled me into the back of an old army truck in the Mission District, 55 years ago.