Woodstock 50th Anniversary Celebration
Bethel, New York
Thursday Morning, August 15, 2019
They say if you remember Woodstock, you weren’t really there. That may have been true for all the thousands of drugged-out hippies in attendance, but not for me. I spent all four days at Yasgur’s dairy farm and can still remember almost every detail.
My eighteen-year-old granddaughter is sifting through a bowl of vintage buttons in the gift shop. She picks one up and reads the slogan out loud. “‘Make love, not war.’ Did John Lennon say that?”
I hear her question, but my gaze has shifted to a replica of the Message Tree. Fifty years ago, it bordered the information booth, the place where thousands of lonely Woodstockers gathered in hopes of finding their lost companions. The sight of it now causes the hair on the back of my neck to rise. Far too many anguished moments spent at that booth.
Adelaide tugs on my sleeve. “Hello.Earth to Grammy. Was it John Lennon?”
I whirl around to find her pinning the button on her T-shirt. “I don’t think so,” I say. “But John and Yoko certainly did their part. You’ve heard about their bed-ins, haven’t you?”
“Duh. They wanted to promote world peace. I know everything about the Beatles, thanks to you.” She tosses me an airy smile, then pays for her button.
“I’m glad I could pass something worthwhile along to you, my love.” With a tap on her cute little nose, I smile back.
“Stop. I got your voice, didn’t I? I’d have never gotten into NYU if it weren’t for you.”
“That’s not true. You did that all on your own. Your voice is richer than mine ever will be.”
She dismisses my comment with a slight shake of her head, then hooks an arm through mine as we stroll through the Bethel Woods Center for the Arts museum, gazing at memorabilia. Adelaide loves all things Woodstock. She’s watched all the documentaries and read countless books and internet articles. The 50th anniversary has prompted her to dig deeper.
The second we stepped out of my ’66 Mustang an hour ago, I entered a time capsule. I could feel the mud squishing between my toes, smell the musky scent of marijuana, and breathe the stench of cow pies. I saw the nudies, heard the magic of Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young; Janis Joplin; Sly Stone; Joe Cocker; the Who; and the one and only Jimi Hendrix.
Our tour of the festival grounds starts at one. Later we’ll come back for the museum party at six, followed by an Arlo Guthrie concert in the new Bethel Woods amphitheater. He’s one of the Woodstock originals who’ll be performing throughout the weekend. It’s the kickoff to the 50th anniversary weekend, where hundreds of festival attendees have come with their children and grandchildren. The official anniversary concert in Watkins Glen, New York, was canceled a few weeks ago for a plethora of reasons. I’m not sorry at all. This low-key celebration on the original grounds is much more my speed.
I’ve been looking forward to my time with Adelaide for months, hoping to snag the chance to impart a little grandmotherly wisdom. We’ve always been close. I tell her things I’d never tell her father. Why that is, I don’t know. Perhaps it’s because the pressure to succeed as a parent isn’t there. Or, if I’m being honest, maybe I’m hoping she’ll learn more from my mistakes than from my accomplishments.
I catch sight of a life-size poster hanging on the wall. It’s Country Joe McDonald, clad in his army green Vietnam uniform, wearing sunglasses and a bandanna tied around his forehead. I can still hear him singing his protest song, “I-Feel-Like-I’m-Fixin’-to-Die,” and, just like it did fifty years ago, my blood freezes. Anytime I’m reminded of Vietnam, my brother’s face sears a hole in my heart. He spent far too long on the front line ... because of me.
An aerial photograph showcasing the half a million people who were here in ’69 catches Adelaide’s eye. As does the one next to it with five naked guys in a canoe. Darting her eyes between the two, she nudges my elbow. “When you decided to come here, did you ever think it would become this massive legendary event?”
“Heck no. I had no clue what I was getting myself into.” Even at twenty years old, I was as pure as a baby lamb, a virtue that embarrassed me from the moment I left home.
“What did your dorky parents say when you told them you were going?”
“I never told my parents, darling.”
Adelaide’s eyes grow wide in disbelief.
I pat her on the shoulder. “They wouldn’t have allowed it.”
She knits her eyebrows. “You were already eighteen.”
“In those days, you weren’t considered a legal adult until you turned twenty-one. Your parents still had the right to decide everything for you. How you spent your time, where you lived, how late you stayed out.”
The sound of her gasp makes me laugh.
“I’d hate that,” she says.
“I did hate it. Like I’ve told you, your great-grandfather was impossible.”
“So where did you say you were going?”
I hesitate just long enough for her to suck in another deep breath.
