Photos courtesy of Kees Van Voorthuizen
My mother hated hippies. She also wasn’t keen on meeting strangers, long-haired or otherwise. And her mood was especially dark that day in 1970 when the two of us were vacationing at the Hilton in Beverly Hills. She’d been waging a long battle with my father, her ex-husband, over me, their seven-year-old, and worried that she’d either lose custody or I’d “turn hippie” thanks to California’s corrupting influence. So when a hyperactive senior citizen with shoulder-length silver hair, a scraggly beard, and love beads around his neck approached us in the hotel lobby while banging a tambourine, shaking maracas, dancing a Russian cossack jig, and chanting, “I’m-a the Gypsy Boots, I live on nuts and fruits,” I wasn’t surprised when my mother yelled at him to get lost. I wanted him to scram, too. Ordinary hippies—the ones I saw on TV or hitchhiking through our New Jersey suburb—they intrigued me, but this one seemed crazy. Scary crazy. Why was this man who looked older than my grandparents behaving like a kindergarten escapee?
“Make him leave, Ma,” I whispered.
She certainly tried to. But Gypsy Boots was a man on a mission, which was to cheer up the sad-sack divorcee and kid he’d just come across. And, being irresistible, he succeeded. Within minutes, Gypsy had my mother and me smiling at him, then laughing with him, applauding his antics, trying out his musical instruments, and humming along to his inane ditties. Boots wasn’t drunk or on drugs, as I had heard other hippies were. Like the female protagonist of the film Harold And Maude, this guy was just chronically jubilant, the archetypal holy fool. After he was gone, leaving me with a free autographed copy of his self-published memoir, Bare Feet and Good Things to Eat, my mother admitted that she hadn’t felt this happy since before my father left her. It amazed me to hear her say that. And it amazed me to realize I felt the same way.
What I didn’t know then, and wouldn’t know for a long time, was that Gypsy Boots was important, nationally important, an odd figure who had changed the course of American culture. He wasn’t just an old hippie, he was the ur hippie. His journey started in the late 1930s, when Boots, nearing 20, left the working world, grew his hair and beard long, and went “back to nature.” This was way beyond Thoreau at Walden Pond: For years at a time, Boots would sleep in California forests, bathe in mountain streams, feed himself by foraging for nuts and fruits and vegetables, practice yoga, and wear practically nothing in the way of clothing. A dozen other Nature Boys, as they were called, kept him company (including eden ahbez, who wrote “Nature Boy,” the hit song for Nat King Cole, supposedly about Boots), but Gypsy was the most visible of the gang, the one who would eventually become a star.
Long before the Baby Boomers turned on, tuned in, and dropped out, “Hollywood’s ageless athlete,” as Boots was known, created a counterculture for them to inhabit. He did this by performing fitness demonstrations on network television and in movies, opening one of America’s first health-food restaurants, racing around LA in his crazily painted van with organic treats for a network of customers—all to spread his message, which was deadly serious in spite of his constant clowning: “Why cling to sickly, fretful, conformist ways when you can be your healthiest, happiest, most authentic self?”
Gypsy died in 2004, just short of his 90th birthday. With his centennial coming up next year, I’ve been thinking a lot about him—what he meant to history and what he meant to me.
Two and a half decades after our encounter in Beverly Hills, Gypsy reappeared in my life. By this time, my mother was long gone—she’d died of breast cancer at 49—and I was living in New York City, volunteering as a cook at a soup kitchen for the homeless. I didn’t think much about Boots; he was a luminous childhood memory, nothing more. Then, while browsing my shelves, I came across the memoir he’d given me, and I decided to bring it to the soup kitchen. Maybe we could use some of the vegetarian recipes he’d included in his book. As I consulted Bare Feet and Good Things to Eat while cooking, a middle-aged woman I worked with noticed the book and grinned and said, “Wow, Gypsy Boots! When I was a flower child in Hollywood in the 60s, Gypsy was such an inspiration. And wouldn’t you know it, he’s still going—I just ran into him last year!”
“Wait,” I said, “he’s still alive?”
“Sure, and he hasn’t changed one bit since the old days. He came roaring into this ashram I was at, shouting, ‘Don’t panic, go organic,’ and making everybody crack up.”
Until then, I’d never met anyone who’d known of Gypsy. So, he was still around, inhabiting the present as well as the past! That night, I called 411 in Los Angeles County and requested a listing for Gypsy Boots. I was doing this out of curiosity, but also as a sort of tribute to my late mother.
Unfortunately, the operator couldn’t find the listing, so I asked her for Robert Bootzin, since Gypsy mentioned that this was his real name in his book. No luck there, either. “The only Bootzin I have,” the operator said, “is a Daniel.”
My heart sank. Maybe Gypsy had died during the past year. I’d just missed him. Then I remembered a reference in his book to a son of his named “Danny” who was about my age. So I rang the number for Daniel Bootzin, and bingo: Gypsy, the younger Bootzin explained to me over the phone, was in his early 80s and living in Camarillo, 30 minutes north of LA. Dan gave me his father’s digits, finding nothing odd about a stranger calling from across the country to ask about his dad. A minute later, I was speaking with Mr. Gypsy Boots himself.
He didn’t remember me, of course. He didn’t pretend to. When I told him, “My mother’s dead now, but when we met you back in ’70, she’d just gotten divorced and you really cheered us up,” Gypsy didn’t seem to take it in, he was too busy talking to himself. Even with a stranger who rang him out of the blue, Gypsy preferred transmitting to receiving—not that I was miffed by this, since he sounded so excited to hear from an old “fan,” as he referred to me. And what a talker Gypsy was: He was as manically zany as I remembered, telling jokes and singing songs in his cracked, high-pitched voice before suddenly shouting, “Hold the line!” Initially I thought this phrase meant, “Hang on, I’ll be right back,” so I said OK and waited for silence, but he went right on speaking.
“Now you listen to me,” Gypsy said. “Next time you come out west from New York, I want us to meet up at this organic market on Vine Street I like to go to. It’s open every Sunday morning, but you have to get there by ten sharp.”
“I’d love to,” I said, “but ten AM on a Sunday might be a bit early. I’ll be on vacation, after all. Can’t we just—”
“No, don’t argue! This is for your own good. It has to be at ten so I can take you for a healthy breakfast that’ll knock your socks off!”
His words were bossy, but his tone was good natured. Like my equally strong-willed mother, Gypsy simply knew what was best for me. Why bother to argue?