Cinnamon Girl by Trish MacEnulty

Hippie style – https://youtu.be/jREf47BPe5w?si=yJLLeEkhFHOxs8VW

Coffee Pot Blog Tour

If you were around in the 1960s or 1970s, or even if you just wonder what it was like, this book is for you. It’s the ultimate hippie coming of age figuring out life book for a teenage girl of the turn-on, tune-in, drop-out generation. Excellent writing. Here’s an excerpt:

Cinnamon Girl by Trish MacEnulty

Excerpt #4

Jellybean went to a private school, but she didn’t like the kids there, so we started hanging out after school and on weekends. Dave and Todd liked her, too. She was a comfortable addition to our group. My life felt just about perfect. I had three of the best friends I could imagine. A lot of girls at school were already locked into steady relationships with guys, but that was the last thing I wanted. Or at least, that’s what I thought.

One Sunday afternoon Jellybean and I thumbed out to Forest Park. Hippies still flocked there to gather and flaunt their freedom. The guys with their bushy hair wandered around shirtless, flinging Frisbees into the sky, and the women lounged on the grasses or danced, their long hair flying about like so many silk scarves. And everyone shared–their blankets, their pot, their music and laughter. Jellybean and I strolled among the tribe, breathing in the fragile moments, sweet as maple syrup. Jellybean ran into a guy she liked, and we got involved in a Frisbee game with him and some of his friends. After the game Jellybean sat down in the grass with the guys, and I wandered around by myself. I grew thirsty and headed toward the stone pavilion to find a water fountain. I ascended the long granite steps of a Parthenon-like building, feeling like the Goddess Athena, and saw the water fountain across the court. I walked toward it. A thin, tall figure leaned against the wall. His head was turned the other way but as I got closer, he looked over and we saw each other.

We stared. A smile pushed its way across my lips. A floppy suede hat topped his six-foot frame, and under it he had a bushy afro. He had light-brown skin and deep thoughtful eyes. As I got to the water fountain, he reached over and turned the handle for me. I leaned forward, holding my hair back with my hand, gazing into his eyes for a moment before I looked down at the clear fluid rising toward my lips. It twisted and reflected and caught the contours of the chrome spout like a Dali painting. I bent my face closer and closer until the cool water splashed against my lips and rushed over my tongue, gathering in my mouth before I swallowed. Patchouli oil wafted from his hand. I stood up, drops of water clinging to my lips, and said, “Thanks.”

He smiled. I turned and walked away.