Stern Grove
We are all women of a certain age— at seventy, mine more certain than others’. I’ve been somewhere much like this eons ago: Love-ins, Be-ins, we called them then, but the young girls in short skirts or long, the couples, the children, the music: almost the same. We filed down a steep, shady path, orange nasturtiums lacing through dark ferns on either side as if lighting our way to where musicians are setting up on a stage under tall redwoods. On either side of us the earth angles up, terraced to the west for seating on the ground. We’re early, but every space is full, blanket to...
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