The year was 1983. Don’t hold me to that. It could have been ‘82 or ‘84. But I think ‘83 is right. This was the pre-stroke me - full of vim, vitality and zest. As my Daddy used to say — all that stuff is wasted on the young. I was your prototypical workaholic salesman then. 80 hours a week and take work home on the weekend. My wife, Pat, was stuck raising our three children with virtually no help from me. The kids knew Dad as the guy who left at the crack of dawn and came back late at night only to retire to my office to enter all the orders I’d sold during the day. On the weekends I was around in a semi-catatonic state. This type of lifestyle leads to breakdown. It did. But that’s another story for another time.

On this particular day I did what I did every Friday. It was the one day a week where I cut my workday short. I’d leave the field about two in the afternoon and pick up a country road out of Morristown, PA. I think it was Route 32 but don’t hold me to that number either. This road ran along the Delaware meandering to exactly mimic the twists and turns of that beautiful river. On my left would be the stately houses of those lucky enough to be able to afford to locate in this pristine paradise. On my right would be the occasional fisherman or lovers walking hand in hand beside the mighty river. If it was summer you might see young ones tubing down the river in the opposite direction, laughing and shouting as the tide sped them to their destinations.

I always dragged these Friday afternoon rides on as long as possible. When the occasional car would come up behind me I would pull over on the bank of the river and let it pass. I wanted to take it all in and didn’t want to be rushed doing it. I guess it was the first part of my weekly de-stressing process so as not to take home a salesman’s aggravation and ruin his family’s weekend. The second part of that process would come when I was halfway through the trip. I would always stop in that lovely little town situated on the Delaware - New Hope, PA. New Hope was, and I trust still is, a nice collection of shops, bars, restaurants and boutiques with a definite bohemian flavor. It had a fine playhouse and a wonderful little independent bookstore whose name escapes me now. But on Friday afternoons I was there for the bars. Okay, I’m airing a little dirty laundry here. I’ve always had a weakness for a couple of brews. Sometimes more than a couple. And a twelve year old scotch was my version of heaven. Still is. I’m one of these guys who takes his first sip of Pinch and says ahhh! as if the weight of the world has just been removed from his shoulders.

On Fridays I would go to one of two places. One was called John and Peters. The second one’s name eludes me today. You got there by going north from John and Peters, passing the bookstore and entering the bar from an ally or side road 1 or 2 blocks past the bookstore. I mention both because I’m not 100% sure of which one I was in that day. But I am sure it was one of the two. I noticed upon entry that the bar was much busier than normal for a Friday afternoon. I went to the bar, ordered a beer, and, since there were no empty tables, I approached a middle-aged man who was sitting with a pitcher of beer in one of those two-seaters with mini-table installed in the wall. He motioned me to sit down and surprise, surprise we were talking about politics in no time.

I found this stranger to be enchanting. Earnest. Very, very intelligent. Some of the most expressive eyes I’ve ever seen. One moment they would flash a deep-seated anger as he described one of the world’s injustices. Another they would sparkle with a wry twinkle as if to say, “I know something that amuses me and tickles my fancy.” At other times they would burn with an intensity and passion that made you feel he was about to ignite into flames. He was so passionate about his kids and his family that it was hard to change the subject when he was on that. He’d keep filling my glass from the pitcher and talk about democracy and it’s meaning; our right to health care and our duty to be public citizens. He was fascinating, intense and extremely persuasive.

When the pitcher was empty I said, “My turn,” and ambled over to the bar. The bartender filled the pitcher and handing it back to me said, “How does it feel to be drinking with Abbie Hoffman?” Startled, I wheeled around spilling some of the pitcher’s contents on the floor. My sudden movement attracted his attention across the room and as our eyes met I saw that he knew I knew and a trace of disappointment spread across his face. As I sat down at the table he said ,” And I was so enjoying this conversation.” He was right. The remainder of the time he was now speaking as Abbie Hoffman. He told me that he had been summoned to New Hope by residents who were desperate to stop a pumping station that was being built some miles north of New Hope in a village called Point Pleasant. The Point Pleasant Pumping Station was conceived to pump millions of gallons from the Delaware to cool the Limerick nuclear facility some 30 miles away. Residents were up in arms about the environmental impact and their opposition to nuclear power. They had exhausted legal remedies and asked Abbie to come in and create huge demonstrations against it. This he was doing. But the station was being readied to open the middle of the following week. Getting ready to take my leave I stood up, shook his hand and said, “It looks like the bastards are going to get their way.” Abbie leaned over the table and showed me that twinkle in his eye and said, “No not at all. You have to realize that God is on our side.”

I drove the few miles along the Delaware to look at the station, all the while wondering about Abbie’s bizarre statement. When I got to the station, I saw that it was situated on the bank between the road and the river. Across the road on the other side were rather large hills arising steeply just past the road’s shoulder. I turned around and headed back to my home, which in those days was in Quakertown Pa. I put the matter out of my mind and enjoyed the weekend with my family.

I don’t know whether it was the Quakertown Free Press, The Doylestown newspaper or perhaps the Pottstown Mercury, (it could have been any as I was a traveling salesman), but sometime during the next week I came upon an article in a local newspaper as I was having my morning coffee. It said that the Point Pleasant Pumping Station opening had been delayed for an unspecified amount of time due to a rock-slide that had come down the hill and damaged the station. When asked for comment opposition organizer Abbie Hoffman said: “I guess this shows that God is on our side.”

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