The Spaces in Between

My parents weren't exactly hippies. They probably were, among other things, a bit too old (in their 30s) in the '60s. Nonetheless, the Vietnam War abroad, the peace movement at home, and all of the associated images and music of that era formed a large part of the fabric of my early development.

Our family went to Washington, DC, and marched with thousands of others on the Mall to object to the war. It seemed like the whole country was there that day. The scene felt chaotic but safe. And warm. The message that I remember most: “War is not good for children and other living things.”

We were also quite near the grounds of Woodstock on that famous weekend in late August all those summers ago. Although we did not attend that legendary event, its literal and figurative proximity seeped into my bones. The music that bathed that era and influenced so many was seared indelibly into my affective core. Guthrie, Seeger, Baez, Dylan, Peter, Paul, Mary, and Judy Collins. My parents played the records and sang the songs. It was the soundtrack of my childhood.

With my parents now nearing 80, my wife Sarah and I recently took them to see Judy Collins in concert. She was playing in Irvington, NY, which happens to be where both Sarah and I grew up. We had not been back to the town with my parents in many years. We were going home to hear the music.

Like fondly anticipating a school reunion in which you have not seen people for decades, the image that you remember of a given person is somehow what you expect to still see. And for those people with whom you had some sense of connection, it is what you hope to still feel. This is even more the case when recalling

someone like Judy Collins, who was so associated with an era that was driven by the ideals of youth. How could that woman with the flowing red-blond hair now be 71? Where have all the young girls gone?

There she was. Hair still flowing. Gray. Elegant. Her voice mostly intact. But no longer an embodiment of youth who helped lead a