In late June 1972, my family undertook a two-week trip that encompassed three cons. We loaded the Mercedes on a Friday. Mom and Dad shared the driving while the four of us kids sprawled in the backseat, feet propped on coolers, our luggage in the trunk. We drove to Cincinnati for MidwestCon, a boring event due to its deliberate lack of programming. After three days, we embarked on the second leg. Somewhere in rural Indiana, the Mercedes began emitting a loud and steady sound of rasping metal, and we heard an explosion from under the hood. The engine immediately stalled. Dad steered to the shoulder. Frustrated and furious, he put me to work gathering pieces of the engine scattered along the road behind us. I pulled my T-shirt away from my body to form a basket for the chunks of metal, which burned my fingers. A state trooper arranged for a tow to a garage, where we remained for several hours.
According to the mechanic, a red oil light on the dashboard indicated that the car had run completely out of oil. The Mercedes had thrown a rod, meaning a piston had broken free of the crankshaft and exploded through the bottom of the engine block. Obtaining the necessary replacement parts would be delayed due to the Fourth of July weekend. Many phone calls later, fans going to the same con stopped and gave us rides, splitting up the family. My brother and I joined a strange pair of men, unkempt and smelly, who argued nonstop about Silent Running. We arrived in Wilmot, Wisconsin, tired, hungry, and forlorn. Dad was angry at Mom for not noticing the oil light. My brother and I were scared from the erratic driving of the Silent Running freaks. My sisters were withdrawn and silent.
WilCon was an invitation-only affair held at a family-owned ski resort with a fake mountain. The lodge was closed in summer, and people slept on cots, furniture, the floor, the porch, and in dozens of tents. Mom and Dad shared the bedroom of the hosts. My siblings and I joined two other kids in the basement, lined up in sleeping bags. WilCon was not really a con at all but a constant party that had evolved from a one-day picnic to a four-day gathering of fans and hippies. In fannish circles, it was well known for its exclusivity. Various legends had accrued: A Star Trek actor buried treasure on the property; an adored fan dropped dead one year; another fan repeatedly ran into trees while chasing a Frisbee under the influence of hallucinogenics. Couples swapped mates, swapped again, and kept swapping.
Loud rock music began playing early in the morning and continued late into the night. Meals were less than savory, prepared by a rotating crew of forced volunteers. All day long, people played cards, washed dishes, and debated the influence of E. E. “Doc” Smith on the novels of Robert Heinlein. They also consumed enormous quantities of alcohol. The scent of marijuana wafted from the only closed door in the house. I didn’t like the taste of alcohol, but the smell of pot enticed me to the dope room, where I stood outside the door taking great inhalations and wondering if I was high enough to run into a tree.
Ever observant and in constant motion, I drifted the grounds like a coyote, circling the periphery, then moving in for a closer look. Nude people flashed skin through open tent flaps or skinny-dipped in the nearby pond. My mother checked on my siblings and me a few times a day, mainly at meals and in the late evening. I never interacted with my father, who pointedly ignored me, perpetually surrounded by sycophants.
One afternoon the six of us kids walked to the pond to swim. At fourteen, I was the oldest. The dark water was topped in places by a green scum. Occasionally a fish brushed my legs. With no hills to block my view, I could see farther than at home, the pond an oasis beneath a broad expanse of deep blue sky. I stood in the cool water, watching the surface ripple away from my body in fading rings of sunlight and shadow. I began moving my hands in the water to see what happened when the ripples overlapped. Someone threw a rock that struck me in the head. I immediately fell.
I regained consciousness beneath the surface of the pond and rose, disoriented and dazed, spitting water and choking. My sisters began screaming. My brother ran to the house. I stumbled out of the pond and staggered across the field. Adults found me wandering alone, a deep gash in the hairline above my left eye, limping from a thorn in my bare foot. Blood streamed down my torso and legs. Someone took me to the hospital in town, where a doctor shaved a patch of hair around the wound and stitched it shut. I returned to the con under sedation, embarrassed at the situation. For the next two days I overheard my father repeating the same words again and again: “The doctor was a square. Look how much hair he shaved off!” I realized that impressing the hippies with his use of slang mattered more to him than my health.