I was watching some anti-war protesters on television a while back. It wasn't a huge group; four, maybe five-hundred people gathered around some anonymous government office building in downtown Seattle.

The protesters were relatively well behaved, though they did have some very unflattering things to say about Dubya. But there were no thrown rocks, fires, or even obscene gestures. At least none caught on camera.

Likewise, the police monitoring the scene were on their best behavior. No tear gas, rubber bullets or nightsticks were in evidence.

The whole thing seemed remarkably sedate for a protest. Boring, even. Frankly, I've seen episodes of "Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood" with more action.

For me, it was just another reminder of how much things have changed in the past 30 years. Most folks who lived through the turbulent ‘60s and early ‘70s would likely say things have changed for the better. But after watching those austere students (most of them looked to be in their late teens or early 20s) ambling along with their professionally-printed placards, I'm not so sure.

I'm not saying protesting a war should be a fun thing, exactly. But it needn't be a study in ennui, either.

I know this first-hand, based upon my one - no, make that two - experiences in civil disobedience.

The first took place when I was only 10 years old, and my mother was there. She worked at the time as an operator for Ma Bell, back before they replaced all phone company employees with robots.

The Bell employees were on strike, and my mom dragged me along to keep her company on the picket lines. I'm guessing she wasn't expecting cops in riot gear to show up and start firing into the crowd, which they didn't. In fact, the police didn't show up at all, except to drive by and wave from time to time.

I don't remember much about the whole affair, other than everybody seemed to be having a good time and there were a lot of really good donuts at strike headquarters just around the corner. I ate too many of the chocolate ones and got sick. My mother was forced to abandon the picket lines to take me home.

All in all, a good time.

The second protest in which I took part was five years later, at Veteran's Park in downtown Grand Rapids. I was only 15 at the time, and the war in Vietnam was in full swing.

I was on summer vacation, and spent most of my days hanging out at the park with a group of kids who were four or five years older than I was. I'm not sure why, but we called ourselves the "Lost Souls," though none of us were really lost, and being for the most part white kids from the suburbs, we didn't have much soul.

Our unofficial "leader" was a guy named Andre, who - rumor had it - had once smoked grass. And inhaled.

We all fancied ourselves politically active hippy-types. Or, rather, some of the older guys did. I was just there for the girls, of which there were many. I was especially fond of "Tinker," a nubile young blonde who had sewn tiny bells on all her T-shirts. Whenever she moved, it sounded like Christmas. She was older and out of my league, but I was a prisoner of my own raging hormones.

So I went to the park every day, grew my hair long, and admired her from afar.

It was an especially hot day in August when our "protest" took place. For those unfamiliar with Veteran's Park, it's a one-block oasis of trees and well-tended grass in downtown G.R., with a large fountain located in its center.

At some point on this particular August afternoon, as temperatures soared into the 90s, one of the group - a red-haired kid named Sid, if memory serves - decided to take a quick dip in the fountain. There was no planning or forethought to it; it was just something to do to escape the miserable heat for a few minutes.

Soon he was joined by a second kid, then a third. They pulled off their shirts and tossed them, sopping wet, at the kids still sitting on the sidelines. One of the wet shirts hit Tinker - thwack! - right in the head.

Laughing, she jumped into the fountain to retaliate. Now, I thought Tinker looked pretty stunning in a dry T-shirt. The addition of water was more than my teenage libido had hitherto imagined. And it had imagined quite a lot.

I don't remember making a conscious decision to join my friends in the fountain, but when the cops arrived, there I was, soaked head to toe.

The police might have let us off with a warning had it not been for the fact that, by the time they arrived on the scene, several of our number were bathing - ahem - au naturel.

To make matters worse, a photographer and reporter from the Grand Rapids Press showed up at the same time as the cops. Recognizing his 15 minutes when he saw it, Andre told the reporter - at the top of his lungs - that we were swimming in the fountain to "protest Nixon's #$%!-ing war in Vietnam, man!"

This was news to me. I thought we were in the water because it was a hot day and Tinker looked really, really good in a wet T-shirt. But, being 15 and a junior member of the cast, I went along with the story, even as the cops hauled us away. The whole thing seemed like great fun.

Until my parents arrived at the police station.

I'll spare you the details of my chastisement. Suffice it to say my father's mood could - at times like this - swing dangerously close to the homicidal. Abbey Hoffman was never in more danger from the National Guard than I was from my old man at that moment.

But I lived through it, though I never saw Andre, Tinker or the rest of the Lost Souls again. They're probably all investment bankers and flight attendants by now. They probably have kids, maybe even grandkids. And I'll bet none of the old gang go skinny-dipping in public fountains any more.

But they sure knew how to throw a protest.

You can e-mail your questions, comments or opinions on dirty, filthy hippies to mtaylor@midmich.net.