Saturday, May 5, 2012



That Young Rascals' song was playing on the radio in the next room when I was taken back to those early summer days in the city. On Sunday afternoons, our new sandals met cobble-stone streets that led us to quaint village shops. Wearing large bell-bottoms, love beads and headbands, we inhaled the aroma of patchouli and sandalwood while browsing through tee shirts, paraphernalia and the latest Dylan album. We were groovin’, just like the song said. 

In Washington Square Park we’d listen to the sound of guitars and tambourines playing for no one in particular. Mingling voices and songs echoed from the walkways and rose into the high branches drowning out all other city noise. But at the beginning of our lives we knew so little and maybe cared so little-except for the peace and love that those Sunday afternoons would bring us. While dancing and singing, we professed love to the world with flowers and peace signs and left those sunny afternoons that would never be there for us again.

Heading for the subway then parting toward different destinies, we still heard 
“ Groovin’, On A Sunday Afternoon” playing in our head and began our long ride toward a much more complicated life. 

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