Boulder '68

Boulder, Colorado - September 10, 1968

Boulder Valley and the CU campus spilled out in front of him as the ‘64 white Ford Mustang crested the last big hill, assaulting his senses.  Unfolding in front of him was an overwhelming view.  The hill was tall enough and the valley deep enough that it was aerial view of Boulder as he descended last leg of the Boulder - Denver Turnpike.  Most prominent, the majestic, immense Flatirons.  Five huge slabs of reddish sandstone rock which had been pushed towards the sky 80 million years ago when the Rockies were formed.  They soar skyward framed with the mountains behind them like natural buttresses, soaring out of the town, pointing to the snow covered Rockies in the western distance.  The tiny homes of this quintessential college town were laid out like a Christmas village surrounded by a carpet of green.   The buildingless, open, green stretch of land which encompassed Boulder gave the impression that the town was tucked into the center of a valley that was safe, secure, apart from the rest of the world, presenting Boulder as a totally unique place all its own.  So true.

The flatirons, the green, the idyllic town and finally the red roofs.  Bruce was told to look for the red roofs.  He could hardly miss them.  There they were, set apart, easily distinguished in the center of this pastoral scene.  The red tile roofs of CU. The picturesque campus comprised mostly of two and three story buildings of pink local sandstone with their white limestone trim, black iron doors and iron railings.  Bruce eased off the accelerator to give him time to spot the letters.   There they were.  Huge white letters - CU - on the side of the third flatiron.  Bruce had arrived.

In 1967, The University of Colorado was the center of the universe for any baby boomer.  CU, as the students called it was right in the middle of everything.  Yes, Boulder and this campus was physically, culturally and politically in the midst of it all.  Physically it was positioned between San Francisco and Greenwich Village making it a perfect respite for kids traveling between the two important meccas of late 60’s culture.  San Francisco with the free-wheeling, free-speech radical  Berkley campus on the left and Greenwich Village, Dylan's headquarters and the equally radical Columbia University up Broadway Boulder was centered in between.  Youthful travelers headed to each coast brought with them in their Volkswagen vans their fashion, their music, their politics and, of course their drugs that defined their generation.   

CU, unlike its costal counterparts, didn’t take itself as seriously.  Boulder as a consequence of its beautiful climate, its proximity to the mountains and the background of majority of the students developed a particularly unique attitude toward the times.  You might call the attitude social consciousness mixed with deep powder snow.  You see, the student body particularly those from out of state, like Bruce, were sons and daughters of successful people.  This was assuredly so because of the substantial differential between in-state and out-of-state tuition.  Only affluent parents could afford sending their kids to CU from Texas, California and Illinois, the three states that made up the bulk of out of state kids.  They were also not particularly focused on pursuing academic excellence.  If they were smart and if their parents were affluent then they would head of to a vast number of private universities of great repute that would take their parents money and return an excellent education to them.  So if your parents were successful and your grades were mediocre yet adequate you were likely to consider CU as an excellent academic pursuit. 

Hence Boulder and CU, being a crossroads between Berkeley to the west and Columbia to the east, settled into a philosophy that was equal parts anti-establishment rebellion and deep powder.   The student body could be fervently anti-war but was just as likely to not show up at the rally if there was snow that weekend in Winter Park.  There was an active chapter of the SDS (Students For A Democratic Society) but when it came down to a head count it was a half dozen kids from the political science and journalism schools.   So the plans for a sit-in would make the daily free college paper and there would be a lot of talk about L.B.J., free speech, agent orange, The Tet Offensive, civil rights or whatever was the issue du jour.  Everyone would be concerned.  On the day of the event those concerned students would likely to drop the pretense in a heartbeat to crash on the floor of a friend’s parent’s condo in Aspen to ski Ajax Mountain and sip Coors Beer at the bottom of Little Nell as the sun set.  Hippies were welcomed with open arms.  They were cool, had drugs and just maybe had "The Answer," but CU students preferred denim to tie-dye.

The student body was convinced of the mind-expanding benefits of marijuana but not to the extent that it would interfere with the Golden Buffs’ football season.  Liberating one’s mind was a meaningful endeavor but not close to the level of ecstasy one could obtain by cheering at the top of your lungs for Ralphie, Colorado’s raging Buffalo mascot as she (Ralphie is always a female) tore around the field prior to kick-off.   Everyone was morally opposed to the war but would never think of burning a draft card or heading to Canada. A far better alternative was to get the name of a doctor in Denver who could get you reclassified 4F because of allergies even though you never had hay fever in you life.  Head to Canada and the party is over.  Get reclassified 4F and you are on easy street.

Climbing over that last hill Bruce felt like Dorothy first seeing the Emerald City.  Bruce was thrilled with anticipation.  His troubles were over.  His problems would be solved.  He didn't know who the Wizard or where to find him but he knew for sure he was not in Kansas anymore.

Bruce had driven 18 hours over two days from his home in Lake Forst, Illinois, stopping in Council Bluffs, Nebraska for the night.  Made pretty good time except when he was following a truck down Interstate 80 outside of Moline, Illinois when a big chunk of metal fell out of the bed of the truck and Bruce ran over it.  He drove another couple of miles thinking, "Feels alright to me," but decided to pull over and was shocked when he saw the metal had peeled a huge chunk of rubber off his brand new tires.  He limped into Davenport, Iowa where he bought a new tire and had the front end aligned.  Other than outside of North Platte where I-80 ended and he was like everyone else forced to use two lane highway, Bruce made good time.  The '64 Mustang had performed quite well in spite of being six cylinders.  When Bruce cranked it up to 70 the car shook like he was on a cobblestone road.  But it didn't bother him a bit.  He had wheels.

His father had bought the car three years ago.  The first year they were sold.  The trick that Lee Iaacocca and Ford came up with is to sell a completely stripped down version with no extras for the amazing price of $2,300.  They promoted that price thinking that once they got people in the showroom they would quickly sell them up with an array of "must have" extras.  Not dad.  He brought home that baby as is.  In addition to the six cylinders, it had crank windows, no air conditioning, stock hub caps and an AM radio.  Bruce had worked all summer in a hospital laundry so he had spending money for school.   His only indulgence was he treated himself to an eight track tape deck he installed. The tapes were about the size of a Wonder Bread sandwich.  

Bruce blamed the lack of a car as the principle problem he had during his freshman year at the University of Miami in Flordia.  Well, lack of a car, no money, combined with a total misunderstanding of the Jewish girls from Long Island.  Bruce went to Miami for one simple reason.  It was the only place he got in.  That was fine - Suntan U as it was called back then was the ultimate "party school" which suited him just fine.  

As soon as he arrived on campus it was obvious that transportation was a pressing need.  The University was close to fabulous Miami Beach, close to the beaches of Biscayne Bay, close to great resort towns like Fort Lauderdale, close to funky bohemian places like Coconut Grove, close to the Flordia Keys.  Close to everything, but walking distance to nothing.  Consequently, everything happened off campus.  It was critical.  A socially acceptable question for a girl to ask at the University of Miami in 1966 was, "What kind of car do you drive?"  Since, Bruce’s answer was, “Oh, I have a huge limo with my own driver.  It’s called the Coral Gables bus.”  This was a line that although Bruce thought quite a cleaver retort did not go over terribly big with those Jewish girls from Long Island that he was trying to impress.   Bruce didn't even know that the Jewish girls were, in fact, Jewish girls. He had grown up in Lake Forest, Illinois and had never met Jewish girls.  They looked like girls to him and that was good enough.  It took all of the first semester to figure out why Jewish girls who came to Miami from Long Island were not going to date a gentle boy from Illinois who didn't own a car.  As early as Thanksgiving he was thinking transfer.  By spring had an application into the University of Colorado, a place he had never seen.  By September he was over the last hill and cruising down into Boulder - A Baby Boomer's Land of Oz.

Boulder, Colorado in ’67 was a sleepy little college town.  Every fall it would double in size with the arrival of the students.  It was a students’ paradise.  For a Midwestern kid, like Bruce it was everything he imagined heaven could be. Boulder was girls without bras riding racing bikes, guys in blue jeans, t-shirts and cowboy boot driving army surplus jeeps.  But the best part, the defining territory, the ultimate, the mecca for a sophomore in college was “The Hill”. 

Tucked right beside to campus was an area that looked for all the world like it had been cordoned off just for Bruce’s generation.  “The Hill” was a cluster of buildings with a movie theater, a bookstore, a Laundromat, record store and, of course bars.  The bars were legendary – The Buff Room, Tulagi’s and the Sink.  Each iconic in it’s own way. The bars exclusively featured an invention that has never before been duplicated – 3.2 beer.  3.2 is beer with a 3.2% alcohol content.   Who ever made the law figured eighteen years olds could handle 3.2 % alcohol – conveniently overlooking the fact that Boulder was a mile above sea-level which more than compensated for the lower alcohol level.  The Buff Room and Tulagi’s featured live music but The Sink was the shrine. The Sink stands at the corner 13^th street and Pennsylvania avenue at the foot of The Hill, acting as a gateway to this paradise for 18 – 20 year olds.  The Sink, with a black exterior is, inside dark by design.  The ceilings are low enough so patrons can burn their names with candles and cigarette lighters.  The walls are filled with outrageously yet brilliantly rendered original cartoons.  Originally painted in bright colors they are now darkened through years of cigarette and grill smoke.  The floors are cement, the primitive tables and high backed booths are wood layered with decade upon decade of carved names and initials, blackened with unnumbered beer stains.  The noise was a deafening mixture of conversations, shouted bar orders and the ever present bar tender who pushed his dolly through the crowd screaming, “Watch your feet”, so as not to crush the toes of his patrons as he hauled his beer from the store room in the back to the bar in the front. 

Above all the noise was the soundtrack of the 1967.  Gracie Slick asking, “Don’t you want somebody to love?”  The Doors announcing, “Hello, I love you. Won’t you tell me your name?” and the Box Tops pleading to “Get me a ticket on an airplane.”  The music was bursting from every corner of Boulder.  The names that decades later would become legends were new sounds emerging on the scene.  It was all so new, so exciting.  Music was to be listened to and also discovered.  “Have you heard Buffalo Springfield?  There is this guy called Jimi Hendrix that will blow your mind.  There’s some chick out of San Francisco named Janus.  Have you heard her yet?” 

That year the Beatles released St. Pepper.  The Doors, Jefferson Airplane and Hendrix all released debut albums.  When Van Morrison sang about “making love in the green grass behind the stadium with you,” everyone was convinced it was CU’s Folsom Field football stadium.  The Stones pleaded, “Let’s spend the night together.”

The environment was an intoxicating mixture of music, snow capped mountains, majestic flatirons, crystal clear warm sunny days, dazzlingly pretty coeds, carefree fraternity boys, all rolled into a single mixture and served up on Friday afternoons.  That was the environment, the second week of the semester when Bruce met his wife.