Good Night, Ruby Slippers
My name doesn’t matter. If you are one of the people this is being written for, you know who I am. If you’re not, who I am is of no consequence. I have been convinced by a priest who has become my spiritual advisor, confidant and confessor, to tell my story. At the end of forty-five years, I accept that there are people who deserve answers, and my prolonged silence is not only selfish, by a cruelty. There are people who know parts of this tale, but nobody has heard it all, start to finish, and there are aspects of it nobody has ever known. I will do this one time, straight through, without embellishing, editorializing, rationalizing or justifying. After this, I will not speak on it again.
This story began in Haight-Ashbury, San Francisco, in the late 1960’s. Whe
