“I was wondering if I could borrow some wheels.” “Can you live with a hippy camper, ’cause that’s all I got right now?” he said. “I’ve always wanted to drive one of those,” I said. In minutes I was on my way over the huge arching bridge above the Atchafalaya, the engine straining, the butterfly-stamped cheesecloth curtains whipping in the wind, a Peter, Paul and Mary tape blaring, and me wondering what the life of a flower child might be like.
