Driving to Oregon in ’66— October or November? I forget— we passed through Santa This and then San That as fields of silver grass fell into the Pacific on our left. The Beatles on the Beetle’s radio  lifted us up like birds or bits of trash.  “Good Day, Sunshine,” they sang.  “Oh yes,” we answered back. Far down, the ocean lumbered in,  a glistening, unwary beast as murderous, bleak and inescapable as Vietnam on a black and white TV.