Newspaper Page Text
Bostonians Seek
To Uproot
Flower People
Hr Wilf IIBPRmI
THE GOOD PEOPLE of Boston are more than a little
unhappy with flower people, like this lad, who have
been taking root in their Public Garden the last couple
of summers. The home folks feel the visitors make
Boston Common a little too common.
L ■ voung Living'69
X^Q/A—
By ROGER DOUGHTY
NEA News Editor
BOSTON — (NEA) — The
scene was Boston Common
early one hot, muggy morn
ing. A guide had already
hauled a busload of visitors
around the big, shady park
and, sure enough, amidst the
flowers and statues and
gravestones and grass the
youth of America was in full
bloom. Not as many as last
year, you’re told, but still
too many to satisfy a lot of
local residents.
This was to have been the
scene of one of the biggest
hippie migrations ever. In
California, “Boston *69” but
tons were all over the place
last winter. Somehow, it
didn’t quite come off.
“Boston,” explained a tall,
shaggy, smiling boy who
said his name was Bob, “is
hardly the Mecca of the
movement, but it’s better
than Haight-Ashbury or the
East Village. They’re both
dead. Boulder is the ‘in’
place to be this summer and
if you’re looking for confron
tation, there’s no place like
Berkeley. Boston still has
some good vibrations — not
many, but some.”
According to Bob, some of
the best vibrations come
from John H. Wyatt, a gen
tleman who has not been
among the living since 1865.
He reposes in a cemetery
near the Boston Public Gar
den.
“I use his headstone for
Sunday, Aug. 10, 1969 1
a pillow,” the youthful poet
guitarist - sometime - handi
crafts-counselor explains,
adjusting his shades. “I feel
I know old John quite well.
Every night we get together
and rest in peace, although
his version of peace isn’t ex
actly the same as mine. If
I ever got caught, I’d need
a headstone of my own.”
The thing about Bob and
friends that bothers a lot of
Bostonians (especially those
who come from families that
were running the town even
before Paul Revere did his
midnight thing) is that — as
they see it—they’re making
Boston Common a little too
common.
Hookers still stroll the
streets here (asking as little
as $lO a trick right in front of
the staid Ritz-Carlton Hotel)
and Mafia types continue to
turn up at the bottom of the
Charles River — complete
with cement booties — but
hippies are considered to be
a bit too much.
The unofficial headquar
ters for those hippies who
have braved Beantown is the
Arlington Street Church. It’s
just around the corner from
the Playboy Club, across the
street from the Public Gar
den and in direct line of the
fixed stare of William Ellery
Channing’s statue (“He
preached with spiritual pow
er and led a great advance
toward Christian ideals,” the
inscription assures you),
which stands in a pile of de
bris consisting mostly of
busted wine bottles.
Inside the church you’ll
find the Rev. George White
house, who probably doesn’t
enjoy being called the hippie
padre, but is anyway. He
runs the Damaged Angel
Coffee House and in general
tries to be helpful to the hip
pies.
“Things are slow this
year,” Whitehouse says,
sounding rather sad. “Last
summer we were jammed
and the response of most of
the churches and of agencies
like the YMCA was to supply
kids with food and clothes
and create an atmosphere
that made them feel at
home. They weren’t causing
any trouble—or at least very
little trouble.
“But the city was afraid
and some rather well-known
people pressured the police
to use selective harassment
to clean up the city.”
According to Whitehouse,
the “selective harassment”
consisted of rounding up
groups of kids on loitering
charges and letting them off
with $5 fines — if they prom
ised to get out of town. Being
caught a second time could
cost SSO — and some time in
jail.
“So the kids went,” says
Whitehouse, “and those who
were here last year didn’t
come back this summer.
Sure, there are still a lot
around, but most of them are
13, 14 and 15. Os course, we
did get some residue — the
kids who didn’t know where
else to go.”
Back on the Common, sur
rounded by tennis players in
whites, drifters in the depths
of hangovers and babies in
carriages, you can find some
of the residue. Four young
men, sitting under a statue
of Wendell Phillips (“Proph
et of liberty and champion
of the slave”), waiting for
something to happen.
R won’t. The good vibra
tions are gone.