Much has been written about Laurel Canyon as THE musician's mecca in the “hippy” days of the '60s and '70s. Laurel Canyon proved to be more than a haven for creativity.  It offered a halcyon existence for young boys fortunate enough to call it home during the '70s. Peter Pan had the Lost Boys, Laurel Canyon had the Free Boys.  At the same time that rock ‘n roll was making history, and Laurel Canyon was in the foreground, families were setting down roots, communities and friendships began to blossom. I was surprised to find any number of adults who still live in Laurel Canyon, grew up here, and 50-60 years later still love living here.

   I spoke with one of these lucky boys, 40-plus years later.  It started as a conversation about Wonderland School.  “What was it like?” “What’d you and your friends do?”  He graciously answered my questions, but it was clear that his fond memories painted a Shangri-La existence he lived growing up in the hills.   The proximity of green space brought thrills, adventure and excitement to his every day life. Seems to me it’s no coincidence that to this day you can meet him on his frequent walks around the hills.
   He clearly remembers going to Wonderland with his buddies.  Grades were often combined.  No one seemed anxious that this might affect his chances of getting into Harvard. He grew up in a “boys will be boys” culture.    
   He recalls that his posse consisted of 20 or so boys in the neighborhood, older and younger brothers hanging together, out to explore, invent, experiment, whatever the moment had to offer.  They would hang out in the still empty lots on Laurel Pass. They might mosey over to the northern edge of Mulholland where there was a dip that held water and was often filled with frogs.  The boys would make it down to the creek at the bottom of Fryman. They might decide to mount a sneak assault on the Mulholland Tennis Club.  There seems to be no persistent “community rumor” that they created mayhem on these unauthorized excursions.  Or they would get out their dirt bikes and roam the hills.  They called one of the hills over at the Summit “Dead Man’s Hill.”
   At the time there was no park at the Fryman Overlook or houses at the Summit.   Or they might take out their BB guns.  He reports that “all eyes are accounted for,” despite the echoes of mother’s voices, “You’ll shoot someone in the eye.”  Apparently that skill set is restricted to high ranking Washington officials and their “adult BB guns.” I cannot imagine any mother being fearless enough to let their kid roam from Laurel Pass to The Summit, with a BB gun no less.
   Now in his 50s, he told me his sobering story of having shot a rabbit; the rabbit turned and looked him dead in the eye and hopped off.  He clearly remembers being horrified.  He could still feel it today as he told the story.  A watershed.  He never shot at anything again.  I am sure that no amount of harping from his mother could have made a more salient point about the value of life.    
   When I asked him what the girls were doing while he and his buddies were off on their adventures, he gave me a blank stare.  He had no idea.  I had to laugh.  Lucky him!