Woodstock Remembered

Yeap, that's right. You heard it here. In 1969, I was getting ready to go overseas as a member of the US Army. I was also, one of the idiots who actually purchased a ticket to what I thought was a three-day folk festival, much like the Newport Folk and Jazz Festival held in the early 60s. At the Newport Festival, everyone had sat out on the grass, picnicking and listening to music in a preppy-type environment, all though a few free-spirits were visible here and there. Nothing prepared me for the 12-hour, 90-mile drive from Scarsdale to the exit where the festival was being held. I just made it there before the New York State Thruway was closed down because the festival traffic was so heavy.

I soon found myself caught-up in a slow-moving crowd making its way to Yasgur's farm. Clad in my Brooks Brothers pima-cotton, button-down shirt and chino-style "go-to-hell" pants (sorry about that Fr. Tom!), I was surrounded by escapees from Haight and Ashbury and the '67 Summer of Love. There were clanging cymbals, banging drums and the scent of the ever-increasingly popular joint (yes, marijuana!). I was, too say the least, shocked.

The only thing which allowed me to get out of the place in a timely manner after two-days before the mud became too bad, was that my car overheated and broke-down in the town of White Lake, about five-miles from the actual site of Max Yasgur's dairy farm. I hiked in from White Lake - a little hike which took about 10-hours. I couldnÕt move any faster than the mob which formed as festival-goers were forced to park further and further away from the farm.

I will have to admit, I looked out-of-place, like a Kingston Trio wannabe in a tie-dyed river of humanity, and garnered a lot of strange looks. It wasnÕt what I would describe as fun - it was a total departure from what I had expected. There was music (although not quite what I had expected), there was rain and there was mud. I brought five sandwiches with me, and they were thoroughly soaked, even in the sandwich containers in which they were packed.

The thing that was scary, I mean really SCARY about the music festival, which has become the icon of the boomer generations' musical taste, was the dynamics of 400,000 people in one place, that small, at one time. It was totally impossible to go faster or slower than the crowd itself moved - you were simply carried along with it. It was unlike anything else I had experienced, but it did prepare me for later excursions, thanks to our Uncle, to some Third World countries.

I lived a Forrest Gump sort of existence in that year of '69-'70, which found me a little more than a year later, sharing a beer at the Officer's Club in Ft. Benning, GA with Lt. William (Rusty) Calley of My-Lai massacre notoriety. It was my year of war and peace, and not in that order. IÕve always thought how ironic to be on the edge of things, but not to be fully involved in either.

There's no way to describe Woodstock to the younger generation, except to say, I was actually there. Even movie clips from it donÕt convey the mob-dynamics in play. You had to be there.

Things have changed a century in the past 31-years - technologically, philosophically and morally. Those truly were the days of peace and music. I hope it portents things to come.

"Smoke eem if you got eem, bum eem if you don't...me," I'm going to look for that original ticket I never had to use, which cost me $18. I'll bet it's worth a lot more than that now on eBay.

Editor's Note: "Go-to-hell" pants were madras patchwork pants usually purchased from Brooks Brothers, J. Press or Paul Stuart. If youÕve lived in total isolation, Haight and Ashbury was the San Francisco street intersection, generally considered the center of the Hippie (flower-children) community.

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