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Roberta M. Price - Huerfano: A Memoir of Life in the Counterculture

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Huerfano: A Memoir of Life in the Counterculture: summary, description and annotation

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In the late 1960s, new age communes began springing up in the American Southwest with names like Drop City, New Buffalo, Lama Foundation, Morning Star, Reality Construction Company, and the Hog Farm. In the summer of 1969, Roberta Price, a recent college graduate, secured a grant to visit these communities and photograph them. When she and her lover David arrived at Libre in the Huerfano Valley of southern Colorado, they were so taken with what they found that they wanted to participate instead of observe. The following spring they married, dropped out of graduate school in upstate New York, packed their belongings into a 1947 Chrysler Windsor Coupe, and moved to Libre, leaving family and academia behind.
Huerfano is Prices captivating memoir of the seven years she spent in the Huerfano (Orphan) Valley when it was a petrie dish of countercultural experiments. She and David joined with fellow baby boomers in learning to mix cement, strip logs, weave rugs, tan leather, grow marijuana, build houses, fix cars, give birth, and make cheese, beer, and furniture as well as poetry, art, music, and love. They built a house around a boulder high on a ridge overlooking the valley and made ends meet by growing their own food, selling homemade goods, and hiring themselves out as day laborers. Over time their collective ranks swelled to more than three hundred, only to diminish again as, for many participants, the dream of a life of unbridled possibility gradually yielded to the hard realities of a life of voluntary poverty.
Price tells her story with a clear, distinctive voice, documenting her experiences with photos as well as words. Placing her story in the larger context of the times, she describes her participation in the antiwar movement, the advent of the womens movement, and her encounters with such icons as Ken Kesey, Gary Snyder, Abbie Hoffman, Stewart Brand, Allen Ginsburg, and Baba Ram Dass.
At once comic, poignant, and above all honest, Huerfano recaptures the sense of affirmation and experimentation that fueled the counterculture without lapsing into nostalgic sentimentality on the one hand or cynicism on the other.

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Copyright 2004 by Roberta Price All rights reserved Printed in the United - photo 1
Copyright 2004 by Roberta Price All rights reserved Printed in the United - photo 2
Copyright 2004 by
Roberta Price
All rights reserved
Printed in the United States of America
First printing in paperback 2006
LC 2004018194
ISBN 10: 1-55849-573-8
ISBN 13: 978-1-55849-573-9
Set in Mrs. Eaves and Pablo types by
Graphic Composition, Inc.
Printed and bound by Thomson-Shore, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Price, Roberta.
p. cm.
ISBN 1 -55849-469-3 (Cloth : alk. paper)
1: Price, Roberta.
2. HippiesColoradoHuerfano CountyBiography.
3. CountercultureColoradoHuerfano County
Biography.
4. Libre (Commune : Colo.) I. Title.
HQ 799.72.C6A3 2004
306 .I dc22
2004018194
British Library Cataloguing in Publication data are available.
Unless otherwise credited, photographs
Roberta Price. All rights reserved.
On the title page: The author, circa 1973.
Photo by David Perkins.
On the endpapers:
Map of Libre 2004 Richard Wehrman.
Map of the Huerfano Valley 2004 Michael S. Moore.
On page 288: Bionic Dog poster 1974 Jim Fowler.
On page 349: Poster for the play Huerfano 1980
Robert Sussman.
Additional credits for use of copyrighted material appear on page 355.
Contents
Prologue
November 2003
Last night I had a dream about a dream. It was 1974, the Thanksgiving feast at the Red Rockers, a time when the hippie population of the Huerfano Valley had swelled from the first six at Libre in 1968 to more than three hundred of us. We were at Libre, the Red Rockers, the Triple A, the Ortiviz Farm, Archuletaville. We were in the tiny towns of Gardner, Redwing, Malachite, and Farisita. We were by the butte in the valleys center, up the canyons, on the high mountain meadows and ridges on both sidesin adobes, geodesic domes, log cabins, and shacks studded all over the Huerfano.
The weather was cold and gray, threatening snow, and that year even the Red Rockers sixty-foot dome couldnt accommodate the circle we traditionally made before Thanksgiving dinner. I dont know who got the idea first, or whether we all just saw that we had to go outdoors to get in a circle. By the time I was headed out of the dome, others were yelling, Everybody outside! We poured out without our coats, some stumbling, stoned or drunk already, dressed in our holiday best (fringes and silks and velvets and satin cowboy shirts and hand-sewn leathers), forming a circle in the Red Rock Canyon meadow down from the dome.
Looking down the slot of the canyon, you could see only one or two of the mountains in the Sangre de Cristo Range, but since David and I had been living high up on the ridge at Libre for four years, it was easy to envision the rest of the mountains marching across the curved horizon. Even though our view was cut off by canyon walls, the outline of those mountains on the rim of the world was etched in our heads by then. Behind us was the huge white geodesic dome, dwarfed by the deep red cliffs of the canyon behind it. The generators were still running, and a Taj Mahal record was playing inside. There we were, the wind hitting us and swirling our hair and scarves, our shawls and skirts and fringes, whipping our bell-bottoms against the bones of our legs, and we held hands and looked at one another and grinned.
In the dream, people moved more gracefully and soundlessly than they did when it actually happened, but I still heard the wind blowing down the canyon behind us from the top of Greenhorn and the laughter in the circle that was so fragile, so vivid and tattered in that geography. In the dream I saw how young we all looked, though I didnt notice at the time. David must have been on one side of me. I dont remember who was on the other. Wed split some windowpane LSD with Henry when we got to the Red Rocks, one dose three ways. Or maybe it was one of the thousands of tiny orange tabs in the two-quart canning jar that Owsley, the greatest pure acid chemist of them all, had sent Libre as a commune-warming gift in 1968, but Im pretty sure they were all gone by then. It hadnt come on yet, but my mouth was dry, my palms sweaty, my heart beating harder, and I was either anticipating or just beginning to feel those electric, surging, sensual waves that flow up your spine, sprouting into chemically induced blossoms of enlightenment.
My Pentax Spotmatic hung from my neck. My arms were crossed over its straps on my chest, and all of our arms crossed our chests as we held hands round the circle. I mostly remember and therefore dreamed about the people on the other side of the circle: Winnie and Mary Red Rocker. Trixie. Lars and Linda. Bella, who had her blouse on (which was remarkable, because she always took it off at parties). Steve, in his handmade deerskin pants and shirt with the deep leather-laced V neck, showing the distinct cleft of his smooth chest muscles. Some are dead now, and some were gone by then, but last night they were back in that circle.
Nobody, not even Peter or Dean, tried to make a speech. We kept smiling and laughing at each other, although our teeth were starting to chatter. Someone, maybe Peter, yelled, Thank you! Then more of us shouted, Thank you! into the wind, and we dropped hands and ran toward one another, boots crunching in the old snow, the circle collapsing inward, my camera knocking against my chest as I ran. At the center, as close together as we could get, we hugged and laughed and cried all at the same time.
In the dream there were none of the difficulties between David and me that day. I felt the same vague disconnection Id felt back then as I hugged some of the people who grabbed me, and I was surprised that I didnt know the names of some I embraced. My camera hurt my chest when I pressed against someone too hard. I never took a picture. It was impossible to capture. Part of me was too involved to take pictures, while part of me was too detached, or already too stoned. Then all of us turned, streaming back to the dome and the plank-and-sawhorse serving tables. The tables were laden with elk roasts and wild turkeys poached from the national forest, our gardens last sweet winter squashes, all sorts of grains and vegetables, and homemade bread and rolls. The smart ones headed for the dessert table first, to get the white sugar and chocolate desserts. They disappeared quickly, leaving only healthy desserts (pies with organic, tooth-breaking, totally whole wheat crusts and natural fruit fillings), so much better for you, but never sweet enough.
When I woke up today, I lay in the sunlight thinking about my dream and the Pilgrims first Thanksgiving. At our Thanksgiving we were thankful, though not very puritanical, and the only Indians there were one-legged John Pedro and his scrawny son, and maybe one or two other Oklahoma members of the Native American Church. I thought about Sal Paradise and Dean Moriarty driving south from Denver in On the Road, and the familial bond of their manic journey. Our roads had ended in the Huerfano, the Orphan Valley, and Kerouac was our John the Baptist, although I doubt hed have envisioned us trying to take root in the arid, rocky meadows of the mountains hed driven past en route to Mexico a generation before. I thought about Dylan, resting on the all-night train going west, dreaming about himself and the first few friends he had, who never thought that their road would shatter and split, whose chances were really a million to one.
Thenat first I didnt know whyI thought of Virginia Woolf,
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