Summer of '69
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About this ebook
It’s the summer of Woodstock and the Moon landing, but for sixteen-year-old Nate, vacationing with his family on the eastern shore of Lake Michigan, the real excitement is considerably closer to home. The Establishment’s in serious trouble when long-lost “Aunt” Penny shows up for a visit. A free-spirited flower child, Penny’s the hippest, most exciting, worldly woman Nate’s ever known, an irrepressible exhibitionist with a talent for finding fun and getting everybody else into trouble along the way.
“1969 was my summer of love; the summer Aunt Penny taught me how to juggle; the summer I finally got the hang of driving a clutch, lost my virginity and my stutter, all on the same incredible night. It was the summer of one small step that changed the course of history for all mankind, and of one giant leap that changed a lonely boy’s life forever.”
“Summer of ‘69” is the funny, sometimes poignant story of classic rock, not-so-cool cars, and the agonies of puberty; sex and the generation gap, the clash of cultures and the games people play for a thrill. A story about coming of age and coming into your own; learning to stand up for yourself and the ones you love; finding your place in a world that doesn’t want to understand, and finding your true voice in the last place you’d ever expect.
Terrance Aldon Shaw
Terrance Aldon Shaw (TAS to his friends) was born and raised somewhere to the left of Chicago in that vast whitebread wilderness known as the American Heartland. As a kid, he passed the time by creating his own graphic novels and “pretend” screenplays, conversing with a brilliant circle of imaginary friends, and dreaming about escape from the stifling phony wholesomeness and pious pabulum of small-town life. After college and a short stint in graduate school, TAS earned a living as a journalist and free-lance musician. He worked under various pennames as a staff writer and critic at-large for a number of obscure local newspapers and mediocre magazines throughout the upper Midwest. Always precociously oversexed and insatiably curious, he dabbled in erotic writing during his off hours, producing several short stories, a modest body of narrative poetry, and several hundred bawdy limericks. Now devoting full time to writing and reviewing, TAS specializes in mainstream fiction with strong erotic themes and explicit sexual content. His work might best be described as “psycho-rotica,” as he prefers to explore the complex, fascinating inner world of sex; the thoughts, feelings and emotion s that accompany the erotic experience. Readers can find Terrance Aldon Shaw’s books in both electronic and traditional print at most on-line retailers. His reviews of erotic fiction, musings on the craft of writing, and the occasional free short story are posted on his blog, Erotica For The Big Brain.
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Summer of '69 - Terrance Aldon Shaw
Summer of ‘69
by Terrance Aldon Shaw
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2016
by Terrance Aldon Shaw
All rights reserved
No part of this book may be used, reproduced or transferred electronically or in print without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews, which may reasonably be deemed to constitute fair use.
This is a work of FICTION.
Any similarity or resemblance to actual persons or events is purely coincidental. The IMAGINARY ACTIONS of, and words, beliefs and opinions expressed by the FICTIONAL CHARACTERS in this book should not be interpreted as necessarily reflecting the actions, beliefs and opinions of the author or any person, living or dead.
Edited and Published by Terrance Aldon Shaw
taldonshaw@gmail.com
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
Summer of ’69
Summer of ’69 Glossary
BONUS:
Three Stories from The Moon-Haunted Heart
Short Window
Mazelblum
A Little Death
About the Author
Books by Terrance Aldon Shaw
Summer of ‘69
It was the summer of 1969. I remember. The Blind Faith album had just come out—the one the record stores had to hide behind the counter because of that naked chick on the cover. Plus, I think we’d recently put a couple guys on the Moon or something crazy like that. Tricky Dick Nixon was president, and there was a lot of weird stuff happening back here on earth. But the thing I remember most from back then—the time I will never forget—is the week my Aunt Penny came to visit us up on Lake Michigan.
She dropped in unexpectedly one day at the family vacation place on the eastern shore, taking some time off from the Post-Hippie Circus she was traveling with. The tour had started at Woodstock a couple weeks earlier and would, if all went well, end up at another big musical happening out in San Francisco. I had just turned 16 that August and Penny was the hippest, most exciting, worldly woman I’d ever met, perky and irreverent, subversive and sexy—the quintessential space-cadet meets classic flower child—pixie-ishly mischievous, infectiously touchy-feely.
You must be Nate.
She gave me a tight, full-frontal hug by way of introducing herself. It’s been awhile. Not sure you’d remember me.
I ruh-ruh-rrr-remember.
Like, baby! You are super cute!
She reached out and tousled my hair. I could just roll you up and toke you!
M-m-mm-me too!
I was already in love.
And who could blame me? Penny wasn’t turned off or grossed out by my stutter. Not like the girls my own age who wouldn’t give me a second look once I’d opened my mouth. This honest-to-god woman was actually paying attention to me. She was laid back enough to give me the time I needed to get things said, and gracious enough at least to pretend that what I did eventually say was worth considering. She didn’t laugh at me, or call me a retard, or try to finish my sentences for me, or interrupt me in mid-thought to enunciate the word I was struggling with, or suggest the one she thought I was aiming for.
Everybody else did it as a matter of routine: Mom and Dad, Bubby and Zayde, teachers, coaches, rabbis, speech therapists, school psychologists. Never mind that I had the best grades in my class. Everyone kept insisting it was all in my head, telling me to shape up or shut up, grow up or get lost. Even my sister Valerie, who was a year and a half older than me and the closest thing I had to a best friend, had her limits with my plodding, tortoise-like elocutions. Just spit it out, Nate!
Her exasperation would boil over and I’d be forced to abandon my brilliant jewel-like deliberation in favor of