In between the Summer of Love and the bloody events of 1968 that rocked the national political stage, Pennsylvania had itself a state constitutional convention.

Given the volatility of the period, it's little wonder that few much remember the three-month "con con,'' as the press dubbed it then. There's no record of any little Pennsylvanians trading convention-delegate cards. ("I'll give you two Dick Thornburghs and one Bob Casey for your James Michener.'')

No, the convention must have excited only hopeless policy wonks like me. I like to think of ol' Michener, author of all those long historical novels, the convention secretary, staring out at more than 160 delegates and thinking: "Not even Tolstoy could turn this into 800 pages anyone would want to read.''

Yet good stuff happened. A 35-year-old Pittsburgh lawyer also was in the fray. Mr. Thornburgh, future governor and U.S. attorney general, won his first election in getting himself to this convention.

I called him because Pennsylvania could have a crack at another constitutional convention. A bill to authorize one has been introduced by State Sen. Jim Ferlo, D-Highland Park, and others in America's Largest and Most Expensive Full-Time State Legislature.

Shrinking that 253-member body, and giving citizens power through initiative and referendum, should be on the agenda of any convention. If the convention is designed the wrong way, though, such reforms may never arrive. The current bill has some of the same flaws as the '60s model.

Once again, three delegates would go to Harrisburg from each of the state's 50 senatorial districts. That's fine but, also again, Republican and Democratic committees in each district would select two candidates, with the top three of those four winning the election.

Those 150 would be augmented in Harrisburg by the lieutenant governor and 12 legislative leaders. It's hard to see how 150 anointed by party machinery, plus a baker's dozen of Harrisburg insiders, will shake up the status quo.

Though the Republican Mr. Thornburgh eventually became an insider himself, he wasn't back when he took a bus every Monday to Harrisburg. He lived in Squirrel Hill in 1967 and ran hard against two Democratic political payrollers to get to the convention, knowing they were locks and he was really going to bump his fellow Republican.

The first thing the old guard did at that convention was put the kibosh on anything that might have made the Legislature smaller.

"I remember distinctly the sense of disillusionment for all us starry-eyed reformers when the pros shot us down,'' Mr. Thornburgh said.

"But it was a good thing to suffer defeat right out of the box. It gave a little reality to it. A lot of the citizen delegates learned the ropes quickly after the initial rebuff.''

Mr. Thornburgh was part of an informal group called "The White Hats'' that included former Republican Gov. William Scranton and future Democratic Gov. Casey, which once met in the women's room to protect its secrets from the pro-inertia crowd.

The convention brought a string of ballot questions to the citizenry, who voted that spring for home rule and to streamline the judiciary, among other things. Thousands of local justices were jettisoned, and a corrupt system of court fees was replaced by salaries. Voters didn't go for merit selection of judges, though.

"It was kind of half a loaf when all was said and done,'' Mr. Thornburgh said, "but it was a worthwhile enterprise.''

Sen. Ferlo and Sen. Jeffrey Piccola, a Republican from suburban Harrisburg, both have been flexible in their push for this convention. Sen. Ferlo's office points out that his bill would allow an independent person collecting 500 signatures in a district to get on the ballot for a convention spot, too. Delegates needn't all be party insiders.

They all must be willing, and able, to go to Harrisburg four days a week for three months, though. That should narrow the field. Pennsylvania needs some white hats to make the cut.