Chapter 17
Like smoke from an old campfire rising high above the Cottonwood Trees
Riding on the mountain wind, ain’t coming back again
“Smoke From An Old Campfire”
The 1970s had its own vocabulary, built, like that of every other decade, on the backs of words that came before.
The chains of 1950s conformity crashed headlong into the 1960s, a decade defined by youthful individualism, peace, love, and unfettered freedom. That confluence resulted in a language stilted by unrest and struggling to tame the tumult of the times.
The 1970s’ vocabulary was a hybrid of words left over from the 1960s era of peace and love mixed with the new slang of Nixonian cynicism. The unisex-garbed craze known as disco further complicated this fledgling jargon. Teenagers, in particular, struggled with their newfound cultural freedom. They danced in defiant polyester, smoked themselves into oblivion, and played their music loud, just hoping for a little understanding from their parents, as well as from everyone else the kids thought they didn’t need. “Can you dig it?” “Far out,” “Boogie,” and “Get down,” were just a few of the too-cool statements slung about at the time.
The Sons of Starmount were caught in the awkward hipness of 1970s pre-adolescence; we were not yet immersed in the subjects of sex and drugs, and thus largely ignorant of the edgier words that came with them. Unfortunately, by the time sex and drugs came to the forefront of our existence, the 1980s had already enveloped us. That decade, marked by painful combinations of self-centeredness and low self-esteem, left its kids ill-equipped with the vocabulary needed to handle the most delicate matters of adolescence. As far as I am concerned, the 1980s should remain generally unmentionable.
Although some of the 1970s’ terms eluded us, we were still early practitioners of slang that proved to be the most enduring. Future decades adopted many of the words we used at the time. The vocabulary of the 1970s yearned to be uniquely inclusive, with the primary purpose being connection and understanding. To us, the language seemed to be a syntax of social sincerity and group effort.
“Awesome” was the term we used to express delight beyond words. It was a stand-in for the clunkier phrase, “I love that so much, I can’t even make sense of it.” And society still uses “awesome” today. And arguably, overuses it.
“Cool” was a word we used to smooth out differences of opinion or give approval to something we couldn’t stomach ourselves. It essentially meant, “I have no idea what you’re talking about, but that’s okay.” It was also a loving way for a ten-year-old to say, “That’s stupid, but not nearly stupid enough for me to not be your friend.” And we still use it that way now.
“Sweet” was our way of giving begrudging ownership of a grand idea to a friend. We were a competitive bunch for sure, and “Sweet” was our more cordial way of saying, “Dammit, that’s such a good idea, I should have come up with it first.” And yes, both children and adults still say “Sweet” today.
The 1970s made it easy to communicate camaraderie, equality, and communal life, and that ethos fit us to a T. In reality, the actual jargon of the decade had little to do with what I call “the lost language of ten-year-olds.” That actual lost language, like that of some rainforest pygmy tribe, was one uniquely suited to young eyes that had seen boundaries but did not recognize them as such. We talked in the constant hyperbole of big dreams and grand designs and considered every word that came out of our mouths as entirely original thought. We looked to the stars, to the dark woods, and to the furthermost shadows with a sense of wide-eyed wonder and jaw-dropping drama. We believed in absolutely everything with unrivaled confidence. We regularly confided in one another with a litany of unproven truths wrapped in heartfelt sincerity. When you are ten, you can speak of Bigfoot, aliens, magic, falling stars, and forever friendship without the worry of ridicule, judgment, or even a hint of disbelief.
I think it’s easier to understand the lost language of ten by all the words we didn’t say to one another. When I was ten, we didn’t call each other “Crazy,” “Dreamer,” or “Unrealistic,” and, certainly, never “Childish.”
Even when the purest form of utter bullshit left our mouths, we never, ever, called each other on it. We never penalized the overreach of imagination, because embarrassing our friends had yet to provide any sense of pleasure or gain us any long-lasting personal advantage. As an added deterrent to seriously humiliating our friends, their fantasies and fantastical ideas were also ours. The stories that sprang from their young imaginations, like smoke from a dream factory, still had the possibility of being true. And none of us wanted to be the odd man out as far as mind-blowing foresight went. We all sought and championed the Unknown, the Might Be, and the Wish It Were.
The lost language of ten is, in the end, made up of unencumbered utterances of belief and a wise-beyond-our-years restraint in the practice of disbelief.