Front Porch #1

February 9, 1963 was an ordinary Saturday night in the Hayward hills. I'd taken a bubble bath, washed and set my hair on hard plastic rollers, and in true 14-year-old fashion, fallen asleep listening to KEWB-91 AM, the local teen-programmed radio station. I awoke the next morning, groggy from a night of vivid dreams. Feeling disoriented, and with a strange feeling in the pit of my stomach, I sat down and wrote in my "Keep Out" diary:

February 10, 1963

The weirdest thing happened. All last night was filled with vivid dreams about going to see Peter, Paul, and Mary perform in Berkeley. When I woke up, it was so depressing because I can't go see them in concert today. Then, for no reason I couldn't wait to read the Sunday paper, and when I looked in the "El Dorado" section of the Oakland Tribune - ESP! There was their picture on the front page! Every time I think of them I almost cry because I want to go see them so badly.  Patty

I hadn't made plans to attend the Peter, Paul and Mary concert that Sunday afternoon in Berkeley because, quite frankly, it hadn't been high on my list. But now, after this transforming night of dreams, I felt left out and strangely heartbroken that I wasn't going to join the other fans at the Berkeley Community Theater. Little did I know that all of this was prelude to a long love affair with one of America's most well-known folksinging groups. 

My sudden adolescent love affair was not without backstory. The previous summer, while at Camp Celio, a Camp Fire Girl Camp in the California Sierras, I'd heard, for the first time, two songs played on accordion by one of my camp counselors. The melodious sweetness of these two tunes, wafting through the pines, stopped me dead in my tracks. When I asked what they were, she told me the titles: "Where Have All the Flowers Gone?" and "500 Miles," adding she'd learned them from an album by a new folk singing group called Peter, Paul, and Mary.  

Later that fall, my father took my brother, sister, and me to his favorite record store on Berkeley's Telegraph Avenue to buy each of us our own LP record to play on the new family hi-fi. My sister Debbie chose Through Children's Eyes, a live album by the Limeliters. My brother Mike's selection: a record of Alvin and the Chipmunks. For me, it was a no-brainer—I bought the album titled simply, Peter, Paul and Mary.

I nearly wore out that record, and soon, seemingly by osmosis, I had learned every song. Now it was official - although I was yet to see the group in person, I was a fan. From there it was a natural step to collect anything and everything about the group, and so I spent hours doing so - pasting magazine articles, newspaper promos, TV Guide listings, black-and-white photos onto scrapbook pages. And then pouring over them - nothing seemed to escape my scrutiny. I haunted record stores for posters, and weekly trips to the downtown store to pick up the "KEWB-91 Fabulous Forty Survey," which was a one-page chart. I was thrilled that on April 13, 1963, "Puff the Magic Dragon" and their album Moving, both charted at number three.

February 11, 1963

Got my test back in science. Got an A. There's no school tomorrow (Lincoln's birthday). It's the strangest thing - I think I am infatuated with Peter, Paul, and Mary. I think it's because I identify with them and want to be so much like them, especially Mary. I think it's because of all those dreams I had. Patty

Although the full group had certainly captured my attention (I was mildly intrigued with the be-suited and bearded fellows, Peter and Paul), my growing fascination was with Mary. Lithe and blonde, mysterious and husky-voiced, the graceful and womanly Mary Travers was everything I wanted to be. And I wanted to know everything about her. It wasn't long before I did.

Mary Allin Travers was born on November 9, 1936, in Louisville, Kentucky, to novelist Robert Travers and a newspaper reporter who wrote under the pen name Virgina Coigney. Both parents were active in union activities, and Mary's first public performance was at five years old on a picket line.

The Travers family migrated to New York City, just ahead of a massive flood that wiped out their family home in Louisville. Settling into a house built by Aaron Burr, Mary's parents enrolled her in New York's private and progressive Little Red Schoolhouse. In a December 1963 article in Hootenanny magazine, Mary recalled, "In our class of '35, there were no less than ten kids who played the guitar. We didn't drink as teenagers. We were too busy playing that guitar to get loaded. On Saturday nights we would go to the Henry Street Settlement House, where they had folk dancing. After the dancing was through, there was an hour or so of singing where anyone could get up and give out a tune."

It was there in the Travers home that Pete Seeger (who had become a family friend) occasionally used the basement for music rehearsals. As a result, Mary got to know such folk luminaries as Brownie McGhee and the Reverend Gary Davis. Later, when she was a teen, she sang in a group organized by Pete Seeger called the Songswappers.

May 17, 1963

Today was Sunday. Finally finished another letter to Peter, Paul, and Mary and I tried so hard to make it appealing. I pray every night that I will get an answer or reply and hope that I do for I like them so so much. I resolve to be a folksinger when I grow up. Patty. P. S. Decided to buy a banjo. P.

The Songswappers we weren't, but by spring of '63, I'd helped organize a hootenanny band at Hayward High called the Songspinners, a name that was obvious nod to Mary's high school group. I was now able to show off my budding banjo skills and songs I'd memorized off my PP&M albums. There were five of us, and in selecting our material we good-naturedly upheld a Hatfields-McCoys style feud: the Kingston Trio vs. Peter, Paul, and Mary. It was this ragtag group of friends who, knowing how heartbroken I'd been to have missed Peter, Paul, and Mary's February 1963 concert, promised to escort me to see my beloved group the next time they came to town.

The concert date finally rolled around on November 15, 1963. I chose an all-black outfit and we all piled into Barbara Wallis' mom's station wagon, and arrive 30 minutes before concert time. When the houselights finally dimmed, and the three finally ran out onstage, hand-in-hand, all blue suits, beards, guitars, and corn silk hair, I was struck dumb. My idols, now, finally, in front of me, in person. There was Peter, the Talmudic intense one, and Paul, the funny loose-jointed one. And then - there was Mary.

Tall and lanky, full of unbridled energy, and flipping her hair like a mane, she was a Palomino pony. Her voice was husky, and she sang with her eyes closed, one foot in front of the other, hand outstretched, palm up, beseeching the audience to merge with the emotion of each song. Here she was, in real life, Mary-the-mysterious, who sang and swayed, tossed her hair, and didn't speak a single word on stage. Later I read that her stage silence was an enforced part of the plan, so she would appear more intriguing and alluring. And only after she began talking on stage years hence, would I realize how completely this had muzzled her outspoken, thought-provoking views about world peace and social justice and rollicking sense of humor.

And so, there I sat, transfixed, in the fourth row of the San Jose Civic Auditorium (ticket price $4.50), drinking in the performance in with all my senses. Following the concert, my friends pushed me backstage, to show the group my scrapbook and to see if we could get some autographs. Peter and Paul both came out, and when I was finally face to face and showed them my scrapbooks, both oohed and ahhed over my efforts, and sent me off with hugs and kisses. I was on Cloud Nine, despite the fact that my true idol had not shown her face backstage. But, it was okay. It only made the lissome, ethereal Mary Travers all the more intriguing and mysterious.

Following that first concert, becoming Mary Travers became a full-time pursuit. Admittedly, most of that was about the hair. Mine couldn't grow fast enough, and the fact that it was thick and curly and dishwater blonde didn't deter me. Clandestine bathroom meetings with Miss Clairol and Curl Free, augmented by morning sessions at the ironing board, my sister Debbie commandeering the iron, resulted in semi-straight, almost platinum tresses that I could sort of swing and hide behind, just like Mary.

I couldn't fight the height thing (I stood 5' 3" to Mary's 5' 10"), so I took to wearing three-inch heels and solid color sheath-style dresses to school. I insisted that my mom alter a Simplicity pattern in order to duplicate a blue crepe dress Mary had worn in some of her photos.

One by one, friends and family became my gentle enablers. My parents and brother and sister were very supportive of my mission. A school buddy, Donna Steinberg, a budding social commentator and talented artist, captured Mary in wryly captioned sketches that she passed to me in notes every day after fourth period. I'd convinced other friends how I wanted to be addressed, and by the time Hayward High yearbooks were issued in June 1964, most of the autographs to me began "Dear Mary." All my friends well knew what I wanted to be called, and who I wanted to be, even before I grew up and graduated from high school.

Mary Travers didn't finish high school, instead dropping out in the 11th grade and taking a series of jobs ranging from portrait artist model, riding instructor, and clerk at an ad agency. Her real interest was singing, however, and eventually, she landed a part in the chorus for Mort Sahl's Broadway musical The Next President.

Mary also joined the ranks of other young entertainers (among them Bill Cosby, Woody Allen, and Cass Elliott) hoping for a break performing in the many coffeehouses around Greenwich Village. By this time, she was married, with a young daughter Erika. Mary had performed several times with singer and stand-up comedian Noel Paul Stookey. At one of these shows, she'd attracted the attention of Albert Grossman, an owlish folk impresario with an uncanny knack for spotting salable talent.

Grossman, who was already managing Odetta, and would soon be taking on a scruffy young soloist named Bob Dylan, was a shrewd and prescient businessman. He'd gotten whiff of the expanding interest in folk music (yet to be dubbed the folk revival) and began envisioning and then methodically blueprinting a folk supergroup. He auditioned and finally settled on Peter Yarrow (a young Cornell student who he managed) to team up with Noel Stookey and Mary, who had since divorced and was struggling to make ends meet as a single mom.

Milton Okun was hired as the group's musical director, and Grossman set the group to work in regular rehearsals and began setting up concerts and TV and radio appearances. He also dictated the groups on-stage look: blue suits, ties, neatly trimmed Van Dyke beards for the guys, and long blonde hair and designer dresses for Mary. Grossman's hunch that America might take to a well-rehearsed, choreographed, mixed gender group that resembled clean-cut beatniks, was spot on. People went wild for this group, who was as visually striking as they were musically interesting. .

Fame swiftly followed. It was only a manner of time before the biblically named Peter, Paul, and Mary (Noel Stookey going by his middle name, Paul) became as well-known by the acronym PP&M as by their group name. The talented Milton Glaser of Pushpin Studios was enlisted to design all of the group's albums and press materials, and even came up with a distinctive cursive typeface that has come to be associated almost exclusively with the trio.

April 12, 1963

Today it rained, rained, rained. Faked it and took a day off from school. Practiced ukulele for hours and learned the introduction to "A ‘Soalin'" by PP&M. I'm going to write them a letter to ask for personal information and an autographed picture. Patty

Though my ongoing stream of fan letters to PP&M would go largely unanswered, I did manage to get myself on the group's Christmas card list, which meant I'd be recipient of the innovative holiday greetings and other materials Pushpin Studios designed for the trio. One, a full size calendar poster, the trio dressed up Bonnie-and-Clyde style. Another was a small, turn-of-the-century themed flipbook, with photos of the Victorian-costumed group cavorting wildly. These annual "Pushpin" greetings are still among my most treasured possessions.

By early 1963, Peter, Paul, and Mary had two best-selling albums, and was receiving regular media coverage, in magazines a diverse as Hootenanny, Ladies Home Journal, and Cosmopolitan. A July 1963 article in Look magazine summed up the PP&M's enormous appeal. "The trio occupies an uncomfortable but lucrative middle ground in the world of folk music. They are not authentics, who spring from a true folk culture, nor are they reporters, who recreate an authentic style. But they certainly cannot be counted among the legion of hack vulgarizers, the tasteless re-arrangers who have caused many old-time folk buffs to curse the current rage and fake-singing it has spawned."

More concerts, more albums, TV appearances, and magazine write-ups followed, and my admiration for PP&M in general, and Mary Travers in particular, continued unabated. I was able to attend more concerts, and eventually Peter would recognize me, greeting me by name backstage, as I showed him how my scrapbooks had grown. But as much as I loved her, Mary remained an elusive figure. Though Peter, and usually Paul, would come out after each concert, to greet fans, sign autographs, and give hugs and kisses, there was no Mary.

Then, at a concert in 1966, out came the trio, Peter and Paul looking essentially the same, but Mary, glowing and gorgeous in a beautiful crepe maternity sheath. I knew Mary had married photographer Barry Feinstein and so was stunned and delighted at this new development (her daughter Alicia was born later that year). Now, there was yet another thing to admire - Mary Travers as mother!

And so the years passed. I went away to college, still emulating Mary when I thought about it, but not as obsessively.  I kept up with the trio, attending concerts, and still trying to keep my hair straight. And I'd begun to take a greater interest in Mary's politics and intellect.

I especially relished the fact that as all of us became Flower Children, so too did Peter, Paul, and Mary, becoming ever more articulate spokespersons for world peace, poverty, and civil rights. As I matured, I found new and different Mary Travers traits to admire, and Mary morphed into my activism mentor. I didn't care so much anymore about her hair or pointy high heels but was far more interested in her unique brand of rational feminism and outspokenness. Though she still didn't talk much on stage, she was quite forthright in magazine interviews.

In 1971, after an intensive decade of performing concerts worldwide, issuing many albums (in the process, garnering three Grammys, five platinum LPs, and command performances before JFK and Queen Elizabeth), the trio decided to call it quits. Paul wanted to explore his deepening commitment to Christianity and Peter would pursue writing and producing. It was Mary who continued on as an entertainer, performing as a solo music act while also hitting the lecture circuit to deliver talks on folk music and society. She also began hosting her own nationally syndicated radio program, "Mary Travers and Friends," a one-hour show featuring chats with prominent performers along with their recorded works. During this time, she also released several solo albums. And now, I had yet more reasons to admire the indomitable Mary Travers who did a lot more than flip her mane of hair and look pretty on stage.

Then, in 1978, after seven years of each flying in a personal direction, PP&M decided to reunite to present a series of reunion shows and, after beginning rehearsals, began considering that they might reunite on a more regular basis.

By this time, Mary's emerging feminism had merged with her lifelong, ongoing dedication to social justice, and she became more and more outspoken about world politics. A trip to El Salvador in 1983 as a member of the on United States-Central American Relations Committee moved her tremendously, and she said the human rights issue there was the most shocking she had witnessed to date. Later, similar trips took her to the Soviet Union and South Korea.

In 1986 Mary became a grandmother, and at a subsequent concert in Nashville, she brought her granddaughter out on stage and sang to her. Clearly, she had gracefully and delightedly segued into yet another wonderful admiration-inspiring era: Grandmother-hood.

Later, in the early 1990s, an older and mellower Mary Travers presented a cabaret show at the Nashville Jewish Community Center. More beautiful than ever, she was a stately presence, perched gracefully on a high stool, one foot on the floor, singing (against tasteful piano accompaniment) and speaking into a hand mic. No hair flipping. No flouncing. Just Mary and us. Her performance was intimate and accessible, and during the hour-and-a-half show, she sang, talked (boy did she talk!), shared memories, was funny, and kept all of us on the edge our seats.

And then, in the mid-1990s, PP&M were booked to play a benefit concert at the Grand Ole Opry in Nashville. Our son David was a young man of about eight, and I was dying to have him meet my old idols. A silent auction win garnered us a special tie-dye shirt and backstage passes. When we arrived backstage, all three of the trio were there to meet and greet us, and husband Barry documented the evening in some wonderful photos.

More years passed, and I kept up with the trio's doings, now via the Internet, still tucking clippings I found into the back recesses of my aging scrapbooks. I attended concerts when I could, and began collecting PP&M historical memorabilia via eBAY, thinking I might, someday, entertain the notion of writing something about them.

Then several years ago, Mary shared with the world that she had leukemia, and was seeking a bone marrow donor. A match was found, and following her transplant, things looked good for several more years. She continued appearing in concert with Peter and Paul. And then, last month, the news came. I'd tried to steel myself a bit during the last few years, beginning when I'd first learned of Mary's illness, and had seen web photos of her onstage, still radiant and smiling, but in a wheelchair, hooked up to oxygen. I knew in my rational mind that the end might be near, but one never really believes an idol will ever pass from this earth. The double whammy was that, like all of the other bad tidings I'd received during the past few years about aging folkies, the devastating news about Mary reached me in that detached, virtual, all-to-impersonal manner: a forwarded e-mail. Mary Travers was dead.

Oddly enough, I began receiving condolence e-mails and phone messages from high school buddies and other old pals (some of whom I haven't been in touch with since the '60s). These folks, now in their 60s, each recalled how integral a part of my teenage life Mary Travers had been, and knew I might be feeling blue. And they were right. Even though I had only met her face to face one time, I was mourning the loss of Mary Travers, whose grace, mystery, beauty, talent, and social activism had made an indelible impression on who I had become.  

And although I now realize that I certainly wasn't the only girl in 1964 saving PP&M newspaper clippings, writing fan letters, and ironing out the kinks in my hair, so much of who I was, and became, in those formative, at times desperate, teen and young-adult years (when the emotional parts of our brains are still in the process of hardwiring themselves) was inspired by Mary Travers. Mary had been my model for so many of the things I wanted to be, at so many different stages of my life. At first, my wardrobe guru, my hair mentor, my song stylist. Later, a model of who I wanted to be as a working (performing!) wife, mother, and social activist. Finally, in most recent years, as she aged and embraced her elder status, Mary had become my secret "crone coach" - the kind of older, wiser woman with outrageous views, a feisty sense of humor, and a kindly forthrightness that tells it like it is. 

I read that Mary faced her impending death with grace and dignity, kindness, and good humor. Though Peter's and Paul's brief statements on the PP&M website candidly acknowledge Mary's at-times difficult personality and rough edges, their profound grief at her loss flowed out of every sentence. Each stated, in his own words, what a gift it had been to know her and how difficult it was to envision a world without Mary Travers. And you know what? In a much more modest, but no less grateful way, I know exactly what they mean.