Once we’d both been served a plate of warm veggies atop more brown rice, my new friend, Brady, pointed toward tepee city. “Follow me to my wigwam, milady.”
On the way over, we passed the Hog Farm stage, doused in puddles. A hippie dude swept the water away with a wide broom while dogs frolicked in the spray underneath.
“When will the music start?” I asked Brady as we passed little children playing tag in the buff. I could hardly wait for the chance to sing again.
“Not sure we’ll have more music on our stage. But don’t hold me to that.”
I was disappointed but shrugged it off. And kept following Brady.
His “wigwam,” one of the largest in the Hog Farm campground, had a round hole for a door, which had been tied open with rope. “After you,” he said, gesturing toward the opening. Holding tightly to my plate, I stepped through the hole, then settled down on top of a Native American blanket that had been stretched out as a rug.
The smell of patchouli was the first thing I noticed, with the scent of marijuana lurking underneath. The amber glow from two Mexican prayer candles gave me the impression I had stepped inside a hippie lair.
Brady followed me through the hole, then sat down next to me, cross-legged. While he chowed down, I looked around at the colorful decor.
“How did this wigwam not blow down in the storm?” I asked, noticing everything around me, particularly the absence of mud.
He rushed to swallow. “I’ve done this a time or two. This is my home.”
“It’s so cool,” I said and meant it. It looked straight out of the magazine photos I’d seen of Haight-Ashbury. Flags with peace signs sewed into the fabric had been hung on the canvas walls; long strips of tie-dyed cloth dangled from the tiptop, like icicles. More Indian blankets were rolled up and stored off to the side, while brightly colored tapestry pillows encircled the circumference. A small wooden table held a brass shoe with a glowing triangle of incense tucked inside. Next to the shoe, a large bong had taken up residence, along with a transistor radio, Janis Joplin’s “Work Me, Lord” playing softly from the speaker.
While the thumps from the bass guitar rumbled through my chest, I swayed to the beat, my mood lifting with each note of Janis’s raspy voice. I touched Brady’s knee. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Yeah, hon. Shoot.”
“Why are y’all calledthe Hog Farm?”
After a loud chuckle, he leaned into my face, far too close for my liking. I could smell his veggie breath. “We used to live on a hog farm. We cared for ...” He tilted his head, squinting one eye. “Fifty hogs. Or so.”
“Wow. Where was that?”
“Tujunga.” After I furrowed my brow, he added, “In the Hollywood Hills.”
“Hollywood sounds dreamy. Where do y’all live now?”
“Pretty much in the buses. We move around from show to show. When we aren’t traveling, we live in Llano, New Mexico.” Brady stretched out his legs, nudging my foot with his sandal. “Everybody in the commune pitched in together. We bought thirteen acres.”
“Cool. How many people live in your commune?”
“Three hundred, give or take. Thinking of joining us?”
I drew in a short breath. This took me by surprise. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Whymaybe?”
I gave his question serious thought. When I had come back to the Hog Farm, I hadn’t considered joining their commune. I had come back for a place to fit in.Temporarily.Until Woodstock was over. I had come back to be around nice people. To sing, eat, do my part, earn my keep. While at Woodstock.
“I’ve never thought about joining a commune,” I said at last.
He leaned into me again. “You’d never look back.”
After a long sigh, I tucked my hair behind my ears. “I have a lot of big decisions to make right now. My life needs a readjustment.”
Again, Brady stretched his arm around my shoulders. I didn’t really want his arm around my shoulders. I wanted Leon’s. “That’s another reason to come with us,” he said. “We don’t make big decisions. The biggest one I’ve made lately was where to set up my wigwam here on the farm.”
“That sounds pretty good, actually,” I said with a hearty laugh.
“It’s the only way to live, milady.” I was just about to ask how they supported themselves when Brady said, “How long have you been a singer?”
