Readers Remember

It was the coolest of the time and the uncoolest of times. It was early December, a month before the ‘60s ended. I attended a free concert up north at the Altamont Speedway. Starring the Rolling Stones. American youth was still feeling the buzz from Woodstock, and there was desire to repeat that monumental festival.

Everybody around me was either having a bad trip on acid or was in a foul mood. A Hells Angel plowed through the crowd with his motorcycle, making everybody scatter and trample over each other.

I split the scene. I missed the Stones’ performance. I remember telling myself while hitching home: It’s goodbye to Woodstock Nation.

STEPHEN JAY MORRIS

San Pedro

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It is September 1964. I am a freshman at a small college in the Midwest. I live in a women’s dorm where gentleman callers are allowed only in the main parlor, and I’m allowed out after midnight five times per semester. Dinner, to which hose, heels and a dress must be worn, is served by waitresses after we have sung grace.

It is May 1968. I am graduating wearing a robe with a black armband to protest the bombing in Cambodia. We stand silent vigil against the war on the campus main street every day at noon. We marched on the state capitol in March to protest the assassination of Dr. King. Dorms are coed, there are no curfews, and dinner is on a tray pushed through a cafeteria line. Sometime during these four years, the ‘60s have happened.

LYNN MORGAN

Venice

In 200 words or less, send us your memories of the 20th century. Write to Century, Los Angeles Times, Times Mirror Square, Los Angeles, CA 90053, or e-mail century@latimes.com. Letters may be edited for space.