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We sat around the big old table after supper, smoking and rapping, and laughing about everyone's stories of perplexity and frustration trying to do something they didn't know how to do. Pruning the orchard and apple trees was an ongoing project that had been and continued to be much debated. Books had been hauled home from the local library but no one could even agree what manner of trees they had there, let alone what method ought best be used. One young woman sure enough knew more what she was talking about, but the men couldn't seem to hear her. I noticed she would make a suggestion and they would talk and talk and talk and then an hour or two later some one of them would make exactly the same suggestion and they would all get excited and seize on the idea as if they had just invented it. Her name was Sarah and her face got bright red every time this would happen. She had white blonde hair, chopped short and ragged around her plain freckled face. She looked young, I would have guessed seventeen. Later on I found out she was fourteen which shocked the shit out of me. Sarah was a runaway, had been a biker chick, worked a year as a topless/bottomless dancer at a sleazy strip club in Sacto and had come up to this commune on a whim with a fellow who had left five days later.

Sarah had been raised on farms and in communes of every color and description by her crazy mother who had a half a dozen kids scattered from one end of California to the other. She told me that when she first left home she stayed in a chicken coop, then lived on the river bank, then climbed on the back of a Harley and never looked back. She said she had made money hand over fist when she was stripping and had phony ID her boss got for her that said she was 21 but he kept trying to bang her and turn her out into prostitution with the customers. \"Dancing was bad enough,\" this little girl told me, \"All the geeks pawing at ya and tucking dollars into yer g-string and giving ya 20 bucks for a table dance like that was some kinda big fucking deal. I had to stay so whacked out to be able to get up there every night. I spent every cent I made on dope. Stupid. The last thing I want is to end up tricking. I'm a musician,\" she said, proudly. \"I gotta sax and a clarinet and I play a little guitar. I just picked it up, it comes to me natural.\"

She was the youngest member of the group but seemed more mature, certainly more self-contained. She was a hard worker, too, and avoided getting caught up in the dramas and petty-ass bickering that sprung up constantly. Sarah had been living in a tent but moved into the little cabin up on the hill when no one else wanted it. It was a bit of a hike through an often marshy pasture and she liked the privacy that afforded. I took to spending a lot of evenings up there with her, talking, getting high, playing our guitars and laughing. Oh, how she kept me in stitches with stories of her unorthodox upbringing. She was not bitter but took a cynical view of the battering and incest and poverty she had escaped from. She called her Mom \"the Beater\" and her step-father \"the Master-beater\"; sometimes she called them Baiter and Master-baiter. \"When they got tired of wailing on each other,\" she said, \"they took turns wailing on us kids. Master-beater was doing my sister from the time she was ten and started trying that shit on me when I was eleven. That's why I bailed out.\" she stated, matter-of-factly. \"He stunk. She acted like he was King or something. Someday someone's gonna stick him with a knife.\" I wondered if she meant herself.

I started to stand up and he pushed me down into the chair again. Sarah jumped off her bar stool and onto his back, hollering, \"Keep your fucking hands offa her!\" and the brawl was on. 'Trico smacked Sarah to the floor, a nasty roundhouse that put her down like she'd been poleaxed. I shoved a chair up against him and pinned him to the bar. Some fellow was pulling me off 'Trico while Sarah was climbing on THAT guy's back and the lumberjack, who it turned out was named Fisher, tried to pull her offa him.

\"Tried to rape ya, didn't he\" one fat old fart suggested, one night at the roadhouse, to which Sarah responded, \"It was my horn, my fucking horn, he was gonna damage my saxophone, man. Can't you understand anything\" But, they couldn't. So far as they were concerned, Sarah had been defending her virtue, and nothing she could say or do could change their perception of the incident. 781b155fdc