"Damnedest thing I ever saw," I said, "and I been to two goat ropin's and a county fair."
He stuck out his hand. "John Love," he said. He had an open, pleasant face. He looked the way you'd look if you could choose your face. He was about twenty-two. He said he was studying to be a Methodist minister.
I said, "What a coincidence, we're standing here drinking beer, and I'm an ex-Baptist minister." We laughed and had a good time with that and agreed that the Methodists and Baptists needed to wake up and see that a lot of the younger generation had moved out from under them.
They finally got everyone inside. Nobody was leaving. The band, sans Johnny Winters, had moved from the park to Alice's. By the time John and I got inside, they were on tables pushed into a stage. They launched into Buffalo Springfield's "For What It's Worth," which had become the Hippie national anthem in a short time.
There's somethin' happenin' in here,
what it is ain't exactly clear;
there's a man with a gun over there,
tellin' me I got to beware,
Hey children, what's that sound,
Everybody look what's goin' down
The crowd, packed too tight to move, sang every word, finally drowning out even the instruments. Everybody knew it. Everybody hugged, cried, laughed. John Love and I looked at each other and nodded. Two preachers knew a revival when they saw one.
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