A vision from the past prompts consideration of what is old and what is new.

I was “ridin’ and guidin'” my 18-wheeler through the flatlands east of Montreal recently when I saw the specter striding meaningfully along the side of AutoRoute 10, his eyes fixed straight ahead, an old duffel bag wedged under his arm. He was dressed in patched, bell-bottom jeans and a faded, tie-dyed T-shirt. The leather thongs of Roman sandals were wrapped several times around his lower legs, and he had a short cigarette (I think it was a cigarette) stuck out of the corner of his mouth. Looking in my rearview, I noticed he was not young, his full beard and flowing long hair contained many streaks of gray. I wondered where he was coming from and where he was headed. As he faded from my view I felt a chill, then abruptly put him out of my mind.

Later, as I beheld the skyline of Montreal – that conglomeration of old and new set upon the banks of an ageless, wide river – the words of an old pop song crept into my mind like a pre-dawn fog: “I’m just an old hippie and I don’t know what to do, should I hold onto the old, should I grab onto the new. Just an old hippie trying not to make a fuss. I ain’t trying to please nobody, I’m just trying real hard to adjust.”

Where in the world did that come from, I wondered? Then I remembered the striding specter.

Over the next couple of hours, I became a haunted man. I couldn’t shake that darned song from my consciousness. I would shut it out for an hour or so only to catch myself humming the tune. Tiring of the fight, I surrendered, flipped on the cruise control, relaxed and gave the song my attention.

I never was what anyone could call a hippie. I didn’t have time to be. I was married at 18, a father at 19 and a grandfather at 35. While all the hippies I knew were running around naked or stoned at the corner of Haight and Ashbury, or rolling in the mud of drugs, sex and rock ‘n’ roll at the original Woodstock, I was trying to put in a little overtime to buy my kids a new pair of shoes.

I tried marijuana a couple of times, inhaled and got sick (guess I wasn’t presidential material). As a young twentysomething, while members of my generation were spending money on Led Zeppelin and Pink Floyd, I was falling asleep at the supper table to an old Johnny Cash record – a 45 at that.

Now don’t get me wrong. I’m not complaining. I made choices in my life and most I don’t regret. I was made to be a family man, I knew that by the time I was 8 years old. I don’t regret not having been a hippie. I was happy with what I was and am happy with what I am. But, why was that darned old song bouncing around in my cranium like a possessed ping pong ball?

Well, the miles went by, the days piled up and I forgot that old song and the specter. Then, Thanksgiving rolled around.

Thanksgiving was a joyous day. My oldest daughter and her husband arrived with their youngest daughter, my granddaughter (I have six, soon to be seven grandchildren), for a visit. We laughed together, gave thanks together and overate together. Later, at the video store, the song came back to me.

I opened the doors to that old hippie when I asked my granddaughter what she wanted to see. She gave me a quick litany of 50 or so current films complete with their stars and co-stars. I quickly realized that I had never heard of any of the movies, to say nothing of their shining stars. To make matters worse, whenever I questioned her about them she just smiled as though I were kidding and said something like, “Oh, grandpa, you’re so funny.”

No, not funny, just an old hippie, emphasis on old. I began thinking about other things, about pop music and young fashions. These days, I’m still listening to Buddy Holly, downloading Gordon Bok and think I’m cool in tweed (I always had a secret admiration for Henry Higgins’ style in “My Fair Lady”).

Ask me to name two top singers on the pop chart, and I’ll give you a blank stare. Ask me to name a popular movie and I go mute. I still think baseball caps should be worn with the bill facing forward, rolled into a slight curve; baggy pants went out with the zoot suit; knee socks look good on young girls; sneakers should be made of canvas; and hip-hop only sounds good around a flaming barrel in the Bronx, and then only if there are no do-whoppers around.

Well that settles that. No, I cannot grab onto the new, for besides computers, I don’t have a clue what the new is. Further, I’m not sure I want to know, and if I do, I don’t want to make the effort to find out.

Just an old hippie who never was a hippie – that’s me. So, if I can’t grab onto the new I had better hold onto the old. I rather like that idea. I’ll hold onto family and love, children and puppies, snuggling and holding hands. I’ll hold onto working hard and resting as if it were a blessing. I’ll download some more Gordon Bok, throw in some good jazz and folk and then not have the time to sit and listen to it. I’ll continue to despise insurance companies (health insurance most of all) question the godly stature of physicians, and completely distrust anything corporate, including most politicians.

I will continue to hold sacred such things as Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas,” Gene Autry’s “Rudolf the Red Nosed Reindeer,” and Roy and Dale Rogers’ “Happy Trails to You,” while considering remakes of these by new artists anathema and new arrangements heresy.

I still like John Wayne movies, anything written by Mark Twain and Road Runner cartoons. I do not consider the Three Stooges violent (I’m so sick) nor do I necessarily view men who cry as being weak or women who stay at home as being unfulfilled. I have trouble tolerating intolerance and have been known to spend an hour looking for the eyeglasses that are on my face.

I’m just an older man getting to like getting older, getting to appreciate the increased perspective. No, I won’t grab onto the new. I’ll pick and choose, thank you. I will hold onto the old for it has sustained me well for more than half a century.

And, wouldn’t you know? Some of that old stuff is becoming new. Go figure.

Guy Bourrie has been hauling on the highways for 20 years. He lives in Washington, Maine, and can be reached at [email protected].