My Woodstock Adventure

I was 19 years old and entering my sophomore year at Marist College in
Poughkeepsie, New York. I worked the summers as a carpenter’s
apprentice. My free time was spent with friends at a popular New York
State beach, Robert Moses. We body surfed and drank too much beer. We
enjoyed life. We often went outside society’s boundaries — we totaled
cars, hopped fences and swam in public pools on hot summer nights,
slept on the beaches in the Hamptons and went to bars underage.

During this time the U.S. was involved in a war in Southeast Asia, to
me that felt like a faraway place. There were up to 600,000 U.S.
soldiers there at times, including my two older brothers. They were
always on my mind and I worried about them. During the holidays
college students and soldiers would come home and visit with each
other at my hometown bar. It was not uncommon to see a soldier and a
hippie shooting pool or tossing darts while enjoying things they had
in common.

At home, we watched skirmishes from Vietnam on our 19 inch black and
white television. I always looked for my brothers on the screen.
Earlier in 1968, Walter Cronkite had reported that this was a war the
U.S. could not win. I was deferred from the draft until after May
1972, my college graduation. I felt my future was uncertain and
outside of my control.

I was not sure of who I was or where I would fit into this large and
confusing landscape. I was told that I could be anything I wanted to
be but I didn’t believe that. I was just a boy. I couldn’t decide if I
was a “hawk” or a “dove”, a conservative or a liberal. I did not know
what to think about abortion, equal rights or that the rivers and air
were being polluted. Society’s challenges were on a high shelf and I
was too small to reach them. This is what the world felt like for me
fifty years ago.

Early in the summer of 1969 while at the beach we heard about the
concert. People were saying a large number of top bands were rumored
to be performing over three days. Music during this time was largely
listened to on a high-fidelity record player at home, a portable
transistor radio or an AM/FM radio in the car or kitchen. Music
imprinted itself on a person differently then. With no music videos or
social media, you had to use more imagination to identify with the
tunes. All I had was my ears to hear the lyrics, to feel the rhythm
and to decide what it meant to me. Music helped me in part, to learn
who I was and figure out who I wanted to be. And I was sure that I
could not miss this music festival. It was simply too important.

After work on Friday August 15 with my friends, Bob and Gary in a 1960
Ford Thunderbird and Wayne and I in a 1960 Volvo with a four speed on
the floor, we left Babylon, New York. Each car had a cooler of beer
and ice and other provisions. We drove a couple of hours north to
Poughkeepsie and stopped at my college bar — the Brown Derby on
Washington Street. While dining on burgers and fries and sharing a
pitcher of beer, we heard a crash and found the Volvo totaled by
another car traveling too fast downhill. Undaunted, Wayne went outside
and busted the windshield of the Volvo for fun and got arrested for
doing it. After a few hours and a phone call to Gary’s father (a New
York City detective), the Poughkeepsie Police gave Wayne back to us.
We put the beer and gear into the Thunderbird and we high tailed it
across the Hudson River and traveled on to SUNY New Paltz. It was
late, we were tired, college was out and the campus was uninhabited.
We climbed through an open window into a vacant dorm room and got a
good night’s sleep and a hot shower the next day. We were opportunists
and hooligans.

The next morning, we set out for the concert venue, now just 56 miles
away. Bob, an Eagle Scout and Wayne a savvy adventurer together
reading the map. When we were detoured off the main highway we decided
to drive right through a corn field, making our own path. Gary was
daring behind the wheel and Bob and Wayne’s navigation was precise. We
drove straight onto Yasgur’s Farm! The car was parked on a grassy hill
overlooking the concert stage a good distance away. We could barely
hear the music. It seemed like everyone was ahead of us but back then
we didn’t know there were many more behind us still coming. We were
lucky and we were in!

Throughout the days and nights there were scattered downpours. The
rainwater was mashed into the dirt by the hordes of people. Most
around me were unsuccessful in their attempts to get closer to the
stage. Mud was sometimes six inches deep and would steal your
footwear. There were a few running water hoses around being used to
fill water jugs. The line for water was hours long but no one appeared
inconvenienced. Since the landscape of the concert was like an outdoor
arena with the stage at the bottom of a semi-circle, water would flow
down the hill. Athletic hippies would run down the hill, dive and ride
the slippery slope.

I recall in the early evening on Saturday struggling to get closer to
the stage and not being able to advance one step without placing my
foot on a person or their sleeping bag. I recall the moment I felt resigned to
the fact that I would not get closer to the stage and realized that
retreat would not be so easy either. I was surrounded by humanity. It
was at that moment I abandoned my quest to get close enough to see
Canned Heat. With both feet anchored ankle deep in cool red mud I
turned to the sky and counted thirteen helicopters. I was alone but
the festivity of Woodstock was there. It was above me, it was under
me, and it was all around me.

This one moment has stayed with me for fifty years. In that moment, I
did not feel the presence of the government or the police. I did not
see formal security, medical facilities, bathrooms or any public
services. Creative spirits abounded at every turn. I felt free to be
myself, whoever that was. I felt safe and that I belonged there.

On the 136-mile drive home down the New York State Thruway there were
many hitchhikers. You could tell they were coming from the festival by
the red stained mud they carried on their clothing and bodies. We knew
we had been somewhere large and newsworthy and that our friends and
families back home would want to hear our story. Never did I think we
would still be celebrating this event after so many years.

I am lucky to have friends like Gary, Wayne and Bob. I followed them
and they gave me confidence. Throughout my life, I’ve always been a
more daring person when with them. I learned to do things like body
surf in storm waves, commute on the train and work in New York City
and most memorably — to pack a cooler of beer and some other
“provisions” and drive to Woodstock. We get together now and then. We
try to fact check the Woodstock tale with each other and interesting
things come out.

For instance, Gary just told me last week that Wayne had a ticket to
the festival.

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