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The late sixties are shaping up to be a tumultuous time for America, though in Topanga Canyon, northwest of Los Angeles, little of the tumult is visible. Freaks coexist with straights and bikers, the sound of dulcimers and the smell of weed are in the air, and young men are quietly spirited away to a distant place called Vietnam.

The country is polarized between pro- and anti-war adherents, the police solidly against longhairs and not above arresting them on trumped-up charges. The hippies, more defined since the previous year’s Summer of Love, try to change the entire attitude of the West Coast, with limited success.

Review

“Every so often a book captures a time and a place: The Paisley Tree House evokes the clash of the old guard vs the counterculture at ground zero of the new age—Topanga Canyon, over the hill from Hollywood. This book gets to the nut of what the Vietnam War wrought on the home front, and the pushback that happened at the level of family, community, and a burgeoning new wave of music. Even knowing what’s coming, the reader can’t look away; but there are still surprises. I greatly enjoyed this, from an author so well-versed in World Wars I and II that he tackles Vietnam with aplomb.”

—Gaoler, Amazon reader

Sample chapter: © David Andrew Westwood 2019, all rights reserved. No part of this text may be reproduced without written permission from the author.

Chapter 5.
Spring 1968.
Fools on the hill.

Hophead Hills was strung with leftover July 4th bunting, Tibetan prayer flags, and peace signs. There was also a bizarre strand of Barbie lights. Just before Christmas, when Charity asked for another Barbie, Sundown had told her that Barbie was oppressive to women. Charity had gone to her room, pulled all the heads off her dolls—she had quite a collection—and jammed them onto a string of Christmas tree lights instead. They fit perfectly over the small bulbs, and the effect was surreal and slightly disturbing.

Bret barbecued hamburgers and chicken on the deck, as well as kielbasa—even though no one in California seemed to know what it was—while wearing an I’D RATHER HAVE A BOTTLE IN FRONT OF ME THAN A FRONTAL LOBOTOMY apron and holding court with anyone who would listen. He had the stereo hooked up within reach so he could control the music. He felt it his duty to turn people onto the latest albums, and last time he was in Hollywood he had bought several of the latest. Currently on the turntable was Steppenwolf’s “Born To Be Wild.”

Bret spent a lot of money on his music collection. He had his albums shelved and classified alphabetically by artist, and if an artist had more than one, then in strict chronological order. He took pride in owning the latest hi-fi gear—Garrard turntable, Sony receiver, JVC preamp, and Altec Lansing speakers.

Bret had also rigged up, with a bunch of Radio Shack parts and plastic elevator light diffuser panels, what he called a “color organ.” When the music played, the treble notes triggered the green lights, the midrange the blue, and bass the red. The result was flashing squares of color that mesmerized his guests, especially, as the evening progressed, the most stoned.

Sundown regarded the array with scorn. If the lights had made interesting patterns that would be one thing, or if they gently shifted from one subtle color range to another, but to simply blink on and off was just some guy idea of cool, a kind of stoner’s traffic signal.

Bret’s work crowd was there, consisting of Doug, his best boy, and a couple of grips, and so was Maddy’s pretty assistant Tess from Stitch Witches. Even the bikers from up the road, Cueball and his old lady Bonnie, had been invited, and their hog already stood in the driveway, all stretched forks, monkey bars and chrome, though its owners could have easily walked the few yards down the hill.

Rumors had spread of a major movie about to be released that featured motorcycle gangs, and this had given the local chapter down in the Valley, Satan’s Slaves, a higher profile. Lately they had taken to strutting around town in faded jean jackets with the sleeves ripped off, their name in studs on the back.

Cueball’s bald head was striking in such hirsute company, even covered as it was by a blue bandana. There were so many extravagant sideburns in the living room it looked to Maddy like an illustration from a Dickens novel.

Cueball preferred the countrier rock, disdaining the more pretentious art-school sound coming out of Britain and any album cover that featured men wearing chiffon scarves, and had brought his own albums. He especially disliked the Moody Blues, whom he considered a “bunch of Limey fruitcakes,” and sneered at Bret’s new copy of Tyrannosaurus Rex’s My People Were Fair And Had Sky In Their Hair.

“O’course, Buffalo Springfield are almost no more,” Bret said. “I’m doing the lighting for their last show in Long Beach in a coupla weeks.”

“I never liked Neil Young’s voice,” said J.J., one of the neighbors, an older man with the previous generation’s tastes and unintimidated by Bret. His was the only hair slicked shiny with cream, and he favored cigars. “Kinda whiny.”

Bret’s spatula froze in mid-flip. “How dare you! The man has soul. He means what he sings about, unlike bullshit singers like Pat Boone.”

“Pat Boone’s not so bad.”

“‘Not so bad’? He couldn’t write a song if his life depended on it. He’s just a performer.”

“So?” J.J. responded, “What’s wrong with that?”

“Today’s bands are not just entertainers, they’re trying to change the world with their music. They don’t just deliver songs, they write what they feel.”

J.J. laughed. “I don’t need my world changed, thank you very much. And certainly not by a rock ’n’ roll band.”

“It’s people like you that go to see Elvis in Vegas.”

“So what if I do? You’re a music snob, Sobieski. If it ain’t longhaired, it ain’t shit.”

Bret considered kicking J.J. out of the party, but decided it would make him look bad. Instead, he just forced a laugh through gritted teeth and changed the subject.

 _____

“I hear you do Tarot readings, Mrs. Sobieski,” Jackson’s friend Duke said to Maddy. It was late, and he was pretty plowed, but he had stuck to beers and was more coherent than most of the other guests. “How ’bout giving Jacks one? See how he’s gonna do over there.”

Maddy shook her head. This sounded like a terrible idea. She was about to leave, but Jackson had overheard.

He was drunk too. “Yeah, ma. Tell your son what the future holds.”

“No, Jacks. I don’t think—”

“Aw, c’mon, ma. It’s OK. We don’t take it that seriously. Hell, we don’t take anything that seriously.”

By now others had gathered around to witness the show, and she was cornered. She fetched the velvet bag from her bedroom and held the deck briefly over a stick of sandalwood incense as a token cleanse.

Maddy now regretted the hit of hash on top of a beer. Just get through it quickly, she told herself. But she had a nasty premonition. Nevertheless she put on her professional face and looked through the pack for the Knight of Swords, a young man in armor charging off to battle on a white horse.

“I’ll use the pentangle reading,” she told Jackson, showing everyone the card, “and this will be your significator.” She placed this card face up in front of her, and then began to place other cards around it at the pentangle’s five points, starting at top right.

She turned over The Devil, and groaned quietly. “Well, best to get this over with, I suppose. This is your earth card—it represents what’s holding you back. The Devil often means addiction, but in your case I think it means you’re too comfortable with bourgeois life, and eager to get out into the real word.”

Everyone laughed. Jackson was enjoying himself, gazing at the cards with a naïve faith in her that threatened to break her heart.

Maddy started to place the next card in the bottom right position. “This is your air card—what others are saying about you, the external forces affecting you.”           

It was the Ten of Swords, a man lying prostrate, ten swords buried in his back. Maddy began to sweat. Her smile became a strained rictus of jollity.

“What is that?” Duke asked. “A kebab?”

“This just means a surprise,” Maddy told Jackson. “Perhaps … perhaps your friends are surprised at your choice to sign up.” There—she took a deep breath—that should do it. Looking around, it seemed as if her audience had bought her downplaying of its significance.

Eager to leave the sinister image behind, she turned over the next card and placed it at bottom left. Please let it be something uplifting. It was The Hanged Man. “I know, I know,” she said, and quickly tried to put another brave gloss on the interpretation. “This is your fire card, and represents internal conflicts at play. In this position, this just means sacrifice. For you, it’s the sacrifice of the soldier giving up his safe home for the … the front.”

Next she placed a card at top left, The Fool, reversed, a motley-dressed man with his nose in the air about to step unknowingly off a cliff. Several people laughed again. Maddy wanted to be anywhere else at this point. “This is your water card—what your intuition is trying to tell you, so you can learn from its advice. Upside down, it can mean recklessness, risk-taking. In other words,” she looked at Jackson, “Don’t take chances.”

Duke laughed. “That’s for sure, huh, Jacks? Good advice, man.”

“And finally…” Maddy took the next card and placed it at center top. It was The Tower, showing what looked like a lighthouse being struck by lightning, people falling out of its windows. A feeling of horror crept up her spine and she had to repress a shudder. Was it possible to have a worse reading? “This … this is your spirit card, representing the end result of … your present path. I know it looks scary, but in this instance,” she extemporized, “it’s a catalyst of change—a change from peace and harmony. About what a soldier leaving home would expect.”

Quickly, she scooped the cards together and put them back in their bag.

Several of the guests slapped Jackson on the back. None seemed to have picked up on his mother’s extreme discomfort. As the group dispersed she hurried outside and threw up. Luckily, no one saw.