We pushed towels against a door to a student room to block fumes from seeping into the hall of our coed dormitory. Skritched matches flared against wicks on candles of varying sizes, colors and scents. Electric lights went dark. And out came our few hoarded joints: leafy “fatties,” rolled in Zig-Zag papers.
If you were to survey our globe’s history and seek to select one nation of people to stand up as an absolutely astonishing icon of resolute defiance against daunting odds, well… you could hardly do better than naming the Apache.
Back in the 70s I was in my 20s and dwelling in a more-or-less communal household in Mill Valley, California. Among my roomies was a surfer whose name I forget. Yet I’ll always remember his ardor for “tasty waves” and his willingness to ditch all chores and any schedule to head for a favored spot whenever glassy swells began to rear up and break.
Here’s a shiny relic from the dawn of man!
A man, meaning me, semi-professionally.
“Splinter” is an award-winning World War II novel, set in Norway at the dawn of the Nazi occupation.
In undressing this topic, it’s hard for a person to be utterly frank with you. Especially me, since I’m named Paul.
