My new romance story All The Wrong Places is now available in Romance Magazine through Amazon. Just go to amazon.com and search BJ Neblett for this and all of my books and stories. In the mean time, here is another random chapter from A Change Is Gonna Come, a follow up memoir to Ice Cream Camelot. Look for A Change Is Gonna Come in print by next winter. Enjoy this slice of my life from when I was sixteen years old. And as always, link, like, comment, and pass along the love.
Peace,
BJ
Summer Of Love
BJ Neblett
© 2004, 2013
1967 was a time of peace signs, hippies, fast cars, Sgt. Pepper, Nehru jackets, long hair, Lyndon Johnson, and magic brownies. It was a year of discoveries, awakenings and awareness. It was the Summer of Love.
For me, the summer of 1967 lived up to its catchy billing. The privilege and innocence of youth sang her siren’s tune and I responded in kind. Cars were cool and fast, girls warm and friendly; the summer long and hot. Life was flavorful in 1967. I took every opportunity to sample all that life in the sexy sixties offered up. Yet, despite the myriad of adventure afforded by a flashy convertible, it would be a vehicle of a different type that drove the summer of ’67.
Music had always been a driving force in my life. My aunt bequeathed me a love of blues, bop, pop, jazz and all things musical. This led to my first guitar at the age of ten. After some lessons and a few faltering starts, things finally started to click. Soon I was singing and strumming along to the simple four chord structures of ‘50’s doo wop, rockabilly, soul and rock n roll. When the Beatles hit with their novel style my advance lessons began. And, as an impressionable teen of the ‘60’s, an interest in peace, love, togetherness and anything anti-establishment introduced me to the gentle, subtle finger picking styles of folk music. I also discovered an irresistible truism: girls dig musicians. The summer of love, my newly acquired Yamaha acoustic guitar and I were inseparable. But July would find me sitting on the 12th floor balcony of an apartment overlooking downtown Montreal on a cool, starry night, playing and singing an old Donovan tune when an angel appeared at my side.
♥
The weather was a cool, albeit obedient child minding its manners, and the ride north was a pleasant one, as my family and I set off from Philadelphia for a visit to Montreal and Expo ‘67. My sister Mary took turns behind the wheel with the rotating adults. I even got in a few highway miles, much to the chagrin of my nervous, overprotective, non-driving mother.
Our first stop was the Thousand Islands, in the St. Lawrence River at the entrance to Lake Ontario. A cool breeze skimmed off the unsettled aqua blue water as we joined an all day river junket of the islands. Our tour included a stop at Boldt Castle on Heart Island. Being an incurable romantic in training, the hunting story of the estate, with its ill-fated lovers and half finished mansion struck a chord with me. I came away from the one day side trip with a nasty cold and a renewed sense of romanticism. Both would play important roles in the next three weeks of my life.
We crossed the recently completed imposing International Bridge and turned into the rising sun. Following the scenic River Highway through quaint villages and lush fields of gold and green, we arrived at our destination on an unseasonably chilly and overcast summer morning.
Checking into a modern, recently completed apartment building whose vacant units served as temporary housing for visitors, we headed to the fair. The unusual cool day did little to help my persistent cold. Still, we enjoyed our first day and wearily turned in after a late supper. The next day remained cool; tempered by the sun playing hide and seek. Long lines, stuffy lobbies, algid conditioned air, endless walking, and plenty of fair food extracted their toll. Seven PM I retreated to my bed while the others went out to eat.
I must have been in sad shape the next day for I uncharacteristically begged off going out, choosing to stay in bed. By evening I was over the worst of it, but elected to hang around the apartment. A slight warming trend promised a beautiful evening, and my sis and parents made it a late night, catching the Fair’s day ending fireworks display.
By eight thirty I was pretty bored when I heard my guitar calling from the corner. What better than to enjoy the city skyline from my twelfth floor balcony? Donning a light jacket, I settled into a cushioned wicker chair. Propping my feet up on the balcony’s iron railing, I watched the Canadian night pass. Within an hour I was deep into a concert of folk and pop ballads, unabashedly serenading the city below.
I’d just finished a goodly rendition of Donovan’s Catch the Wind when the sound of applause startled me. I turned to look over my shoulder. The applause was joined by a genteel giggle and a velvety, “Tres bon, Monsieur, Tres bon.”
I twisted further in my seat. An angel had landed on the connecting balcony. Straining in the dark for a better look, I managed to twist completely out of my chair. The giggle changed to hushed laughter as I clumsily landed on my butt with a thud.
The angel moved from the shadows into a creeping finger of moonlight. A delicate hand, partially covered by the sleeve of a sweater shyly moved to cover two small, moist lips.
“Oh, Monsieur!” the angel spoke to me, “are you ok?”
Sprawled out on the balcony’s artificial turf carpet, I discovered the most beautiful green eyes on the planet.
I was right.
It was an angel.
She stood across the low iron railing separating our balconies. Light from the apartment cast a flaxen halo around light honey hair. Her soft green eyes glistened like crystal marbles in the moon glow. With whisper like words, as soft and silky as the fur of the calico she lovingly cradled in her arms she spoke again. “Monsieur… Sir…?”
“I’m… I’m ok…” I managed. “I was just…”
Unable to unlock my eyes from hers, I awkwardly stumbled to my feet.
“I am so sorry, Monsieur,” she said. “I didn’t mean to… c’est a dire… start you. I was enjoying your musique.”
“No, no, it’s ok… I… you… you did? You liked it?”
“Oui, very much… You play very good.”
Moments like these happen rarely, if ever, and never to guys like me. She was an angel, an angel in rust colored turtle neck and long plain black wrap skirt. Even in sensible heels she couldn’t have stood more than five foot four. The calico cat she held playfully swiped at strands of thick, long hair that spilled over one shoulder, reaching the middle of her back. Her nose was like that of her cat, tiny and carefully turned.
But it was her eyes, eyes that charmed me; reached out and enslaved me; luring me into a lush green prison. They were tender yet dazzling, two flawless emeralds. They sparkled and spoke to me; teased and invited me. I’d never seen anything so beautiful in my young life.
Our eyes remained fused, silence speaking for us. Bathed in the moonlight, we were close enough to feel each other’s breath. The evening breeze brushed a wave of hair across her cheek. We were characters in a scene from some sappy romance novel: when two star crossed lovers first meet. Nothing could have added or taken away from the moment’s perfection.
…except my cold.
I sneezed.
I sneezed unexpectedly… hard.
I sneezed and my whole body jerked. Startled, the calico cat jumped from her arms, nearly leaping off the balcony to the street twelve floors below.
I sneezed again. Quicker than you can say gesundheit in French my angel was gone, vanished before my eyes.
Regaining my composure, I thought maybe I was dreaming, or hallucinating: the thin air twelve stories up affecting my brain. Or maybe it was the cold medicine. Before I could figure it out she returned.
“Oh, you poor bébé…” She pulled some tissues from a box of Kleenex and tenderly dabbed at my nose.
“Thank… thank you. I’m all… I’m all right…”
…another sneeze.
I grabbed the tissues just in time. My eyes began to water as I blew my red sore nose. “Sorry…”
I felt the touch of an angel on my forehead. “Oh, mon ami, you are sick. You are á bas with the fever.”
The angel pressed some more Kleenex into my hands and once again, to my dismay disappeared. Uncertain if it was the heat of the moment or the sneezing fit, I felt light headed. Retreating to my wicker chair, I sat thinking things over.
I was in Montreal, Canada, on an apartment balcony, playing my guitar and singing under a big full summer moon, when an angel appeared out of nowhere to give me Kleenex, an angel with a calico cat.
“Sounds reasonable to me,” I said to the night. “Maybe there’s a song in all of this.”
I blew my nose again.
“She likes my singing,” I mused, “I must be hallucinating.” Picking up my guitar, I began finger picking a simple chord progression.
“Mmm, that is so very pretty.”
I jumped but managed to stay in my chair.
“Oh, I am so very sorry.” She giggled, delicately covering her mouth once more in her girlish manner. “I did it again.”
Turning, I smiled and said, “Listen, Angel, maybe you should start wearing squeaky shoes or something.”
Nothing.
My attempt at humor drew a blank stare. I quickly realized, however blank stares from beautiful green eyed angels were actually very pleasant.
A puzzled look pulled at her pretty face. “How did you call me?”
“What…?”
She batted long, curled lashes. “It’s Angelissa, mon ami. My name is Angelissa.”
Setting down my guitar, I crossed the balcony to where she stood. “To me you are an angel.”
I have no idea where that came from. I couldn’t help myself, it just came out. Of all of the cheesy pick up lines I have ever committed, before or since, that had to be the cheesiest.
“Angelisa…”
Her rose petal lips blossomed into a winsome smile. “No, Cheri, Angelissa… An – gel – is – sa.”
“Angel – lista...” I fumbled again and we both laughed. Her smile lit up the night; put the full moon to shame. Her laugh was warm, sincere. Her lips said, “Angelissa,” but her face said, “Angel.”
“Angel – issa…” I tried once more, than said simply, “how about I just call you Angel?”
“Oui,” she purred. Her smile made me forget to breath. “And what does Angel call you?”
“Me…? My name is Billy.”
She continued to smile up at me from her side of the balcony. “Bouly… Bouly, my poor sick minstrel, you should not be out in the night air. It is no good for the throat.”
My cheeks flushed. I could feel them redden. The childish was she pronounced my name turned my brain to hot mush. “Actually, I’m starting to feel much better,” I blurted out; afraid she’d disappear on me again. “The air is refreshing and I love the moon.”
Angel’s eyes lifted from mine to the mature moon which now hung directly in front of us. It balanced perfectly like a huge yellow ball atop downtown Montreal’s tallest buildings.
“Le lune de amour,” she breathed, “the lover’s moon.”
We were close. Even with my cold I could smell her fragrance. Like everything about her it was soft and unassuming, like a freshly unwrapped peppermint stick. Instinctively I drew closer. Only the thin metal railing separated us. We stood in silence for an eternity, taking it all in, allowing the moon to work its ancient magic; cast its secret spells.
Another perfect moment...
Another perfect moment shattered by the shrill whistle of an anxious tea kettle piercing the stillness.
This time Angel jumped.
I found myself sitting in a plush rattan love seat on Angel’s balcony. My foot was securely hooked to one of the legs in an effort to steady my nervousness. I’d be fine as long as I didn’t make any sudden moves.
This was crazy. Although young, my experience with girls was vast. I enjoyed their company; found them eminently more interesting than guys. Plus they looked and smelled better. At school I had many gal pals. Some I would have enjoyed getting to know better. So, what was with the case of nerves?
“Bouly,” Angel called from the kitchen. “We will take care of that nasty cold.”
My nervously twitching left leg segued from a rumba into a jitter bug. Angel appeared in the doorway with a serving tray. Somewhere seldom used rules of etiquette fired in my brain.
I stood.
And I nearly fell flat on my face, dragging the love seat half way across the small terrace with me.
“Oh, mon ami, are you alright?”
Sure, no problem. This was all well planned and thought out. Every stealthy maneuver carefully timed and calculated for your entertainment. Next I will throw myself off the building and you can forget all about this crazy, clumsy American.
“Yes, I’m ok, Angel, thanks. Can I help you?”
She shot me a worrisome look. “Oh, no, Bouly, please, sit. It is ok.”
I managed to secure my seat without further incident. Angel took her place next to me in the cozy settee, placing the antique serving tray on the glass topped rattan table in front of us. She began to mix a grand blend of thick honey, fresh squeezed juice of orange and lemon, and rich English breakfast tea. To this she added a goodly measure of a dark amber liquid.
I recognized it immediately.
Angel saw my concerned expression. “It is Brandy, mon ami, good for the chest.” Taking in my look of concern, Angel laughed her infectious laugh and touched my wrist. “You forget, Bouly, you are in Canada. And I am French. I was raised on Bordeaux and Cognac. You must trust your Angel.”
I trusted her. I wasn’t so sure how my father would feel. Rationalizing the curative nature of Angel’s concoction, I accepted the oversized mug. “It smells wonderful.”
It did. My chest had already begun to clear just from the heady aroma. Angel presented her matching mug. “A ta santé, mon ami!”
Her potion was strong, hot, soothing. I figured with the amount of brandy she used even if it didn’t cure me it was sure to make me forget all about my cold.
Conversation with Angel came easy; natural. Several times she caught me staring at her as she spoke. “Bouly…” She cocked her pretty head to one side. “Why do you look at me so? You make Angel flush.”
“I’m sorry.” Now I blushed. “It’s just that you are so very lovely.”
Coming from me the words sounded strange; foreign. I had girlfriends before; dated a lot. And in my own bumbling fashion I had managed to express my feelings. But I never spoke from the heart, not like this. Until now, romance was something to be sung about in song; viewed on screen; read in books. Suddenly, sitting on the balcony, inspired by my comely companion, buoyed on Brandy and moon glow, I found myself speaking the language of love.
Angel coyly lowered her gaze. “Monsieur, you flatter me. Perhaps it is but le Lune?”
Setting down the mug, I touched Angel’s hand tentatively. She permitted my advance. “No, no I don’t think so,” I replied.
“So, there you are, Papillon!” A large, mustachioed gentleman materialized in the doorway. He was easily six foot three. An expensive tailored suit coat failed to conceal the broad chest and blacksmith arms. But the soft, full jovial face betrayed his dangerous countenance.
“Oh, papa…!” Angel hurried to his side. He wrapped his arms around his daughter and Angel nearly vanished in the big man’s embrace.
“Ah, I see you have company,” he said in a perfect Pepe le Pew accent. Looking my way, his expression was thoughtful, considerate, as he sized me up.
“Oui, papa,” Angel took her father’s hand, leading him to me, “please, I wish you to meet my friend from next door, Bouly. Bouly, this is mon père, Frank Jolie. Papa, this is Bouly.”
My hand was lost in a sea of flesh and fingers. He looked at me perplexed. “It’s Billy, sir,” I explained.
His grip tightened and he shook my hand, as a wily smile unfurled beneath the thick mustache. “Ah, I see. Billy you have come for my city’s exposition?”
“Yes, sir, my family and I arrived the other day.”
His grin broadened. Without warning he leaned forward. The bushy mustache tickled my face as he clasped my shoulders, kissing first one then the other cheek. “Welcome, ami! Welcome to Montreal, welcome my friend!”
“Papa, no… no, papa…! Wedging herself between us, Angel shooed her father aside. “Please, you embarrass me.”
Frank Jolie stood there laughing, his whole immense body in motion. “Welcome… welcome to Canada…”
His laugh was contagious. Despite the intimidating introduction I liked him immediately.
“And what do we have here?”
All heads turned. The night went eerily silent. Even Frank Jolie fell mute. A stunning woman with a long claret red mane and perfect cream colored skin sauntered gracefully onto the balcony. She stopped at Angel’s side. Like Angel, her eyes were emerald green, possessing a hint of mystery and edginess and fire. They burned through to my soul as she deliberately scrutinized me.
Angel’s affecting voice melted the strained night air. “Bonjour, mama…”
“How are you my darling?” the woman replied, continuing to regard me. Some of the tension in her handsome body melted as well.
“Mama, this is my friend. He is from America,” Angel announced, quickly adding, “he is a musician.”
“Oh… he is…”
“Yes, mama, we are having tea… for the cold in the chest, as you have taught me.”
“I see…” Her voice was mellifluous, yet strong, sure; and without accent. Feigning a smile, I returned her gaze as best I could.
From one side Frank shuffled and laughed to himself. “He is called… Bouly...”
The woman’s stare lighted on Frank, then returned to me. Angel, too, shot her father a look which put a halt to his giddiness. “Mama,” Angel said, “I wish you to meet Bouly. Bouly, this is Catherine Jolie.”
One thin, painted eyebrow arched as Catherine Jolie accepted my unsure hand. “It’s Billy, ma’am,” I managed through a suddenly dry mouth.
She continued to study me.
“It’s very nice to meet you,” I added, her warm hand still resting in my now sweaty palm. I was intimidated, but why? Angel’s mom was exceedingly beautiful and young, not appearing old enough to have a seventeen year old. Though taller than her daughter, it was obvious where Angel received her looks. Angel’s charm and warmth must have come from her father, I decided as Catherine released my hand. The slightest hint of a smile curled the corner of her lush mouth, and then retreated.
“So, you are a musician?” It sounded more an accusation than a question.
“Well… I play the guitar… some.”
“Oh, mama, he is très bon,” Angel beamed.
I could feel my face turn the color of Catherine’s crimson lips.
The faint hint of smile returned. And her eyes softened a bit. “Come, Frank,” she said flatly. Then, almost as an afterthought added, “It is nice to meet you also, Mr. Billy.”
Frank Jolie obediently disappeared into the apartment, followed by his wife. Catherine paused in the doorway, turning to Angel and I. “And Mr. Billy, please do not keep my daughter out too late in the night air.”
♥
The next day I awoke with the sun. Morning’s first light cast its illusory pall, as Angel, an emerald green specter haunted my reverie. Given to flights of romantic fantasy, I questioned if it had all been real. The comic antics of Frank and my nightmarish encounter with Catherine were certainly dream like. Finally around 7:30 I pulled myself out of bed. I discovered Angel’s potion had bestowed its magic. My fever and my cold were broken. Indifferently picking at my breakfast of scrambled eggs and sausage, I stared at the clock.
“Are you going somewhere?” Mom asked, noting my fidgeting.
“He’s as nervous as a long tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs,” dad quipped from behind a newspaper. His antiquated witticism never failed to amaze me.
My eyes found the clock again: 8:40. I swear it was moving backwards. What is the appropriate time for a… a minstrel, that’s what she called me… for a love struck minstrel, feeling the bite of Cupid’s arrows to call upon a green eyed angel? Had she slept well? Was she thinking of me? Did she dream of her Bouly?
I felt hot and flushed.
It wasn’t my cold.
“Why don’t you go out?” Mom gave up on my eating, scraping the plate into the garbage. “You’ve been cooped up in this apartment for two days. No wonder you’re acting crazy.”
Out… yes…! I needed to get out.
Ignoring mom’s cries that I should take a jacket, I rushed from the apartment and rang for the elevator. The weather had finally turned. In minutes the rejuvenated sun warmed my face, making me feel as alive as the pellucid day.
After a long walk, I returned refreshed and relaxed, my cold completely vanquished. Dad met me at the door. His brow furrowed and he glowered at me. From the sofa my sister Mary gave me a curious look.
“You have a visitor.” I knew that voice. It was one of mom’s animated character actress voices; the, isn’t he just precious voice. Since she wasn’t on stage acting I gathered I either had done something cute or I was in big trouble. My money was on the latter.
“Outside,” dad uttered.
From my sister’s silly grin it occurred to me my visitor was Angel. Maybe this wasn’t so bad after all. I looked up.
It was worse.
A large figure loomed on the balcony, casually watching the traffic below. It was Frank Jolie. Everything became crystal clear. I fought hard to suppress a growing grin. A perfect vision of the big French Canadian affectionately and suddenly grasping my father, welcoming him to Canada, played in my mind.
I was going to pay for this.
Steeling up my courage, I walked out to the balcony. Frank’s greeting was warm. “Ah… Billy…”
“Mr. Jolie, it’s nice to see you again.” Frank took my hand. “You’ve met my family?”
“We’ve met!” came my father’s stiff retort from inside.
“Well,” Frank sighed, “as I was telling Monsieur,” he placed a meaty hand on my shoulder and we strolled inside. “Angelissa, she would like you to accompany her today. She is anxious to, how do you say, show you around.” Angel’s father made a wide sweeping motion with his arm. “Naturally I though it only proper that our families should meet.”
Mom spoke up. Ever the actress, her voice neatly slipped into a southern drawl. “Well now, isn’t that nice?”
I felt as if I were being brokered in an arranged marriage.
“Yes, I appreciate your concern and considerations, Mr.… err… Jolly,” dad said, looking wearily at Angel’s father.
“Frank, please. I insist, please call me Frank.” He took a step across the room.
“Frank,&rd