Having completed one semester of college in 1964, I told my father he wasn't getting his money’s worth out of me as a student and at age 18 I moved to the City where I found a cheap apartment on Downy Street in the Haight Ashbury. I landed a job at the Emporium on Market Street where young sales girls were required to wear black skirts, white blouses, and stand at attention facing the main door at 9 a.m. when the hoards were let in to battle for territorial rights to the sales tables. It was my first job and so unlike the way I was raised and the way I normally dressed, but I was proud of being a city working girl. And proud to be able to pay for my own Christmas shopping that year!

Often, I traveled home on the Greyhound bus on weekends. Dad met me at the bus stop each time in the station wagon even though it was just two blocks away. It was a good feeling knowing that Dad was always there to meet me as I stepped off the bus.

On the way back to the City, the bus stopped routinely in Santa Rosa. At one stop, a tall handsome guy carrying a guitar case got on the bus. It was Dan. Surprised and happy to see him, I offered him the seat next to me, which I had reserved for my books and purse.

I first saw Dan at local coffee house just outside of Santa Rosa. In those halcyon days, he was a solo act. He played guitar, wrote his own music and lyrics and sang in a style of rapid “scat-like” blues, but instead of stringing meaningless sounds together, he rolled words together as one—tangent, all in one breath, singing with speed and soul.  His lyrics sang with a cynical insouciance.

My fascination for Dan was immediate. I was hooked. I wanted to be there every Friday night to see and hear him sing; I wanted to be there so he would take notice of me.

He was six years older, tall, sandy-red hair, bushy mustache, and had a sarcastic and cynical wit. With a laid back devil-may-care attitude, he was the epitome of cool. As the typical young adoring hippie, I was absolutely potty over him but too shy to act on my feelings, except to just be there. When I showed up at the coffee house, I tried to look mysteriously alluring, cool, sophisticated, deep and hip in black tights, black Bermuda shorts and a red or black turtleneck sweater. My hair hung long and loose or in braids. I smoked. I fancied myself as cool as Anais Nin in a Paris café. I fancied myself a writer with a twilight muse; all that it took to lure my Henry to my place. Apparently, it worked; he sat next to me on the bus!

Our short experiment with romance began the day he walked on the bus. It ended 6 months later in Virginia City.