The Summer of ‘67
& Midnight Strolls
by Dena Hensler
School was out for the summer and I was thirteen
and a half years old...the half, at that stage of my life, was
extremely important because in my mind I was very close to
being considered an adult – well, almost.
Earning money was always in the forefront of my
mind because the cost of my list of “wants” generally exceeded
my weekly fifty-cent allowance. For instance, “Fave” or
“Tiger Beat” magazines cost approximately 35 cents while
45 RPM records were 77 cents each. Simple math tells you
that I would have to save up for any impractical purchase.
Fortunately that summer, a rare opportunity presented itself
to earn some serious money when I was asked to baby-sit
for my nephews who lived in Caribou. They were age two
years and two months, and I was to live in for a period of
several weeks while my aunt and uncle worked their day
jobs. The duties included taking care of the boys, doing
housework including meal preparation and laundry. While
the work was difficult and provided some real cash, it came
with other perks, like meeting a boy from up the road who
had a beautiful roan-colored horse named Blaze. Several
times when my aunt and uncle were at home in the late
afternoon, my friend and I sat astride the horse and rode
bareback through the grassy fields enjoying the spectacular
views of the Aroostook River as it snaked along the banks
of its natural confinement. When more permanent babysitting arrangements were made and my services were no
longer needed on a daily basis, I returned home to Presque
Isle to catch up with my best friend Martha and to take
advantage of the remaining weeks of summer prior to
starting school in the fall.
Martha and I lived on the same street, our houses
separated only by four other dwellings. For us, it was a
magical time of listening to the songs of the 60’s on her babyblue colored phonograph. Our taste in artists included the
Beatles, the Grass Roots, Herman’s Hermits, Gary Pucket
& The Union Gap, the Troggs and even Bill Cosby to name
a few. The lyrics of the songs reflected many of our thoughts
and feelings even though we were somewhat oblivious to the
deeper meaning of some of the compositions, specifically
those like Barry McGuire’s “Eve of Destruction” and others
protesting the Vietnam War as well as those promoting the
use of drugs. To us, the war at that time was a non-reality,
one to which we could not comprehend the meaning at
28
SUMMER 2012
that time of our life. Our thoughts of war were reflective to
our grade-school days only a few years earlier at Gouldville
School when we had air-raid drills. We would be ushered
into the gymnasium where we were instructed to crouch
beneath the wooden folding chairs in the subterranean
basement. Without the moment-by-moment news updates
available today, we were cushioned by the wave of youthful
ignorance on which we rode.
Walking downtown on Saturday was one of the
highlights of our time spent together. While we both had
weekend chores to perform, Martha’s mother was very
strict in not allowing her to go until all the household tasks
were done, so it was often late morning before we received
clearance. The distance from our homes to our destination
was less than a mile and we chomped on either Teaberry or
Black-Jack flavored gum while we chatted nonstop. Our goal
remained rather constant as we went to the southern most
end of the main street shopping district where we visited
Zayre’s to look for fashion bargains that might be affordable
to us on our meager allowance. At that time, Main Street
was the hub of Presque Isle’s shopping district before the
advent of any mall. Working our way north, we visited F.W.
Woolworth and J. J. Newberry. Entering the latter store, the
well-oiled hardwood floors emitted a scent that is still fresh
in my mind today. Ultimately, after poring over the hair
and makeup items, we took a seat at the soda fountain. We
were thrilled to climb upon one of the metal-framed stools,
the seats upholstered in red-leather, and waited to place our
order for a Coke float with coffee ice cream. The concoction
was served in a metal, funnel-shaped receptacle with a
similar shaped paper-cone liner inserted within which held
the soda and ice cream...until it invariably bubbled up and
over the paper onto the counter.
From there, we walked to W. T. Grant’s store
where we purchased the smallest package of fresh-roasted
cashews that we could afford (our limited budget usually
allowed for a quarter pound purchase). With our salted
snacks in hand, we proceeded along the southern end of
the street, and entered Marston’s bookstore to do some
serious investigation into the teen magazines. We were
nearly salivating over that week’s teen heartthrob whether
it was Bobby Sherman, Davy Jones, Mark Lindsay or any
others who earned the front cover spot. After reluctantly