Stuck in the Sixties

From the time that the hubby and I began to spend nearly half our time in Colorado, I often commented that the whole state was stuck in the 1960's.  When attending the various summer festivals and music events, we've always been fascinated by the number of people who appear to have walked right out of Woodstock and into the 21st century Rockies. 

Earlier this year, before we made our summer sabbatical to the mountain cabin, our friends took great glee in kidding us. According to their way of thinking, with the legal and free flowing availability of marijuana in the state, we would most likely never return from the mellow mountains. Contrary to common assumptions, we've yet to see the streets populated with stoned citizens, their heads encircled in sweet numbing smoke. 

It's a bit difficult for us to be very judgemental about the right or wrong, good or bad of  "Pot-marts" or of those that shop there and imbibe.  After all, we were children of the sixties.  We do believe there are some definite medicinal uses of the controversial weed and also believe that the over indulgence in just about anything leads to trouble. 

That being said, when we attended a Folk and Bluegrass festival recently, we were prepared to see plenty of mountain highs. We sat in our lawn chairs under the tall trees, the music drifted out from under a huge white tent and the beautiful mountains, many still snow capped made a backdrop that an artist could not have painted any more stunning.  The flowing trails of spectators ranged from babies carried in slings to folks that walked uneasily with a cane, on the rocky ground. The favorite seating,  the dozens and dozens of multi colored blankets spread on the ground. The chosen attire was anything tie-dyed, much of it sold by the nearby vendor in the tent fluttering with colorful clothing. Although, the man with the crisp brown kilt, a cowboy hat and boots was pretty interesting.

As the evening approached, we watched the parade of festival goers, our plastic cups of wine in hand...alcohol, certainly one of the most destructive drugs that humans have ever partaken of. They lounged on the blankets and slept, they danced the barefoot waltz and other swaying gyrations that resembled the motions of all the splotched dressed children cavorting around the grounds. They wiggled back and forth with the beat of the music to the beer and wine and food vendors.  We inhaled...waited for a familiar whiff of Miss Maryjane....never caught it.  Oh, most certainly, some of these folks had indulged in their vice of choice.  I mean, you had to wonder about the thin older, gray haired man in shorts, sweatshirt and barefoot that performed his yoga in the meadow beside the dancers. Oblivious to anyone in the area, he moved in slow-w-w motion,  did his standing frog or what-ever. 

In the absence of visible or sniffable proof, we choose to believe that most of these folks are just free spirits.  In this world of chaos they are holding on to a dream of peace and love. And wouldn't it be nice, that fifty year old delusion that we could just all get along?   It was a good day for dreaming.