https://youtu.be/xQWqydPxKJU

In the spring of 1973, before I took the flight to Eugene, I was volunteering to help an elderly member of my hometown Church to roof his house, when my minister showed up with a proposition. He was changing churches, but wanted me to accompany him to an orientation for a youth ministry in the Table Rock Lake area of Missouri, near Branson, and the Silver Dollar City tourist attractions. Even in 1973, the Branson area was drawing in as many as one million tourists from all over the world each summer. Even Granny from the "Beverly Hillbillies" came to visit the set of Silver Dollar City, and believe me you don't get much bigger than "The Beverly Hillbillies" in the Ozarks. Branson is as far south in Missouri as you can get, and some of the biggest hills north of the Boston Mountains of Arkansas. I know this geography lesson doesn't mean much to many of you, but people; this is the heart of the Ozark hill country in Missouri.

Photo: The group of VIEW members, 1973, Branson, Missouri. I'm in the center, seated, back row, (orientation night). 

Our first trip as a group was to Silver Dollar City, were we all received a season pass. Walking down the streets of the tourist town, I heard my name called aloud, "Olan!" and the sentence continued, but I only heard Olan. I whirl around, my neck contorting, only to see a street play. One of the characters was named Olan, no doubt a hick or a hayseed. I moved on straight to "Fire in the Hole," a roller coaster built the year before. Here was a treat, and it was fun to ride, it was mostly underground, so it didn't affect my inner ear and I didn't get sick riding it. On the way back I watched other street shows, visited Granny, not the TV show Granny, but the one who made the lye soap and dispense hill folk wisdom, and all the shops where many of the group would work for the summer; one became an apprentice glass blower, another worked in the blacksmith shop, and another worked with Granny. Granny would become a regular stop for me on my visits to the tourist town. Some got jobs working the Shepard of the Hills restaurant, and others did other things. My first job was working to build a rodeo arena. Great right? No, the man was a shyster and closed the shop and left without paying us a cent. I ended up working in the restaurant business. I know it was the first job I had out of high school that I'd quit after one night, but this time I was a busboy, busing tables at a Holiday Inn restaurant that fed over one thousand people, just in the afternoon. We were busy the moment we stepped foot in the restaurant, and I would get off at midnight.

I did okay as a busboy, but having come out of a TBI you can imagine I was not too quick on my feet, but I got the job done. The busboys were usually paired up with a waitress, and we serviced a section for the night. The stereotype of a madhouse in the kitchen was true; the moment you walked into it; bam! It was shouting from the chef non-stop, not the typical male chef, but our chef was a female, and everything had to be perfect. Her food was to die for, but the moment you walked into the dining area it was very quiet, almost an eerie calm. You'd think the mad house shouting, beyond the doors, would filter through the wall, but it never did. Usually, it was too busy to meet any customers, as that was the waitress' job. Every so often, a group or a couple would wave you over to talk, and you responded, as this restaurant was friendly, with an extremely professional decorum; you never refuse a customer's request if it was reasonable. One time I was given a twenty dollar tip. The waitress didn't share her tips with the busboy, so I didn't share mine, but I did tell her. She said, "One man left a hundred dollars. I knew what he wanted," that was a big tip in 1973. She said, "Don't worry about it. My husband is a multi-millionaire, and I work to keep myself busy. I'm also the Corn Shuck Doll lady at Silver Dollar City."

I had a lot of fun that year, but I didn't know that some of the group were worried about me; going off to college so far away; perhaps my minister had asked them to keep an eye out for me, because of the brain injury I'd had. I worked at a Christian Bookstore as a volunteer. We all did, working in shifts in our spare time to run the book store. One day this young lady, Meg, came to pick me up and took me home as she'd delivered the next shift worker from the group. Meg and I didn't get along at all, like fire and ice, but we coexisted. As we were walking out to the communal car, she suddenly grabbed me from behind, just as a semi passed within feet of my face. It didn't need to be traveling that fast in that area, but I should've been paying attention. Meg saved my life.

I said, "You just saved me, I owe you my life."

She replied in her usual way, "Well, I didn't want to see you killed in front of my face."

My second year in college, in Oregon, she showed up for a visit. She said she wanted to check up on me. She had returned for the holiday from Oxford, England to Nevada, and then took an eight hundred mile bus trip just to see me. I guess it is true, if you save someone's life you are bonded. She spent two days on campus and I showed her around the city of Eugene. We had a great time, and she even smiled. She left saying, "You're going to be just fine, and I've never seen her since. I don't even know if she is alive or dead, but I often think of her. I think she secretly liked me, but hid it well.

One day, the whole group of us decided to see how many of us we could cram into a VW Beetle. We got most of the group, up to thirteen. It was very touchy-feely. Asses and faces were in the wrong position, but we traveled for some distance, just singing songs, and doing what young adults do, playing. By this time, we were all family, and nothing was secret. It would end, though, and the little Christian Commune would disband and scatter around the world, but not before the FBI came rolling in with seven black Lincoln Continentals. They headed straight to the counselors' trailer, and we were all eyes and ears, but no one dared to walk outdoors. After several hours they got back into their black cars and left. They had come to interview one of the counselors about Watergate. It seems he was a student of one of the Watergate Seven who also was a Sunday school teacher in Maryland. Our friend didn't say much about what was asked of him, but he did say they wanted to know everything that was said in his Sunday School class. Believe me, if the FBI comes, they don't ask for an invite. We knew, before most, that Nixon was going down for the count.

The bookstore where we worked as volunteers, Branson/Table Rock Lake area.