Why,whyhad I left him? I didn’t know for sure he would stay with Shelly. He had told me she was complicated. They had broken up. I’d just stood there like a fool and let someone else have the boy I wanted. I’d made it easy for Shelly. All because of my low self-esteem. And lack of trust.
Trust is a curious thing, especially when considering the blind trust people have in strangers. We trust pilots we’ve never met to take us safely to our destinations. We trust nameless pharmacists to dispense the right medications and unknown surgeons to operate with a steady hand. Dentists are trusted by millions of patients every day to drill holes in their teeth. We blindly trust drivers not to cross the yellow line.
Trust is in most every decision a person makes. How could I have called all men untrustworthy just because Dad had treated me wrong? The more I thought about not trusting Leon just because Shelly had decided to show up, the more I knew, 100 percent, I had to page him. I had to at least try to get him back. He had given me no reason to distrust him.
All I had needed was to learn how to trust myself.
Seconds later I sped down Ho Chi Minh Trail barefoot, in the direction of the main stage.
1:00 a.m.
By the time I made it to the bowl, the crowd had thinned dramatically. Hard to say, but it looked like the population of Woodstock had been cut by two-thirds. I plodded up to a gathering of people hovered around a warm campfire. “Excuse me. Has Crosby, Stills & Nash played yet?”
“Not yet,” said one of the girls in the group. “Blood, Sweat & Tears is next. Those guys are supposed to follow.”
My muscles softened. “Do you happen to know what time it is?”
The girl used the glow from the fire to check her watch. “One o’clock.”
“Thank you!” With the lull in the music, I had to get to the stage in a hurry. If not, Leon’s page could take another two hours. I wanted to watch Crosby, Stills & Nash—and Young—with him.
I bolted down the two-lane pathway. With fewer people, it didn’t take as long to make it to the front. Once there I scribbled out a note on a deposit slip from my checkbook and handed it to a stagehand.Leon Wright, you have an important message at the information booth.Shelly’s exact words.
Heading straight there, I pondered what I’d say when he showed up. I’d thank him for all the fun and laughter, and for buying me the halter top. I’d tell him he’s a great kisser. Most of all I’d thank him for helping me to discover my truth. For helping me to see myself for who I truly was ... a survivor. A singer with a future. A girl who, given a little freedom to trust herself to make her own wise choices, could love her life. And herself.
I would tell Leon he was a kind, beautiful soul any girl on earth would be lucky to have. And maybe, just maybe, I’d tell him that girl should be me.
Chip delivered my message fifteen minutes after I made it to the info booth. “Leon Wright, you haveanotherimportant message at the information booth. Popular guy.”
While waiting, my heart fluttered. In the background the unmistakable sound of Blood, Sweat & Tears rang out through the night sky. Fifteen more minutes passed while I circled the booth, darting my eyes in every direction, waiting for Leon to show up. With or without Shelly.
Another fifteen minutes slipped away. Although I knew it was futile, I asked the same girl with the Boston accent—the one who had been manning the booth earlier—if Leon Wright had answered his page.
“I don’t think so,” she said. “But I’ve talked to thousands of lost souls this weekend. I couldn’t tell ya for sure.”
An hour later, Blood, Sweat & Tears told the audience goodbye, and I said goodbye to the information booth.
Woodstock
Day Four
Monday, August 18, 1969
3:00 a.m.
Illuminated by a blue cast from the spotlights atop the towers, three handsome faces appeared onstage. Even from where I stood toward the back of the bowl, I knew exactly who they were. Shouts and applause loud enough to silence a hurricane exploded from the audience while I stood there, alone, watching the band I’d looked forward to hearing the most.
Once the trio had taken their seats atop wooden stools, Stephen Stills leaned down toward his microphone. “Hey, man, I just gotta say that you people have gotta be the strongest bunch of people I ever saw. Three days, man.Three days!We just love ya. We just love ya.” He looked over to David. “Tell ’em who we are.”
“Just sayin’ hello. Test. Forty-nine. Sixty-five. Hi,” said David Crosby, right before the magical guitar chords from “Suite: Judy Blue Eyes” filled the night sky.
Chip’s offstage voice could be heard underneath Stephen’s guitar. “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome with us Crosby, Stills & Nash. And Young.”
I didn’t know why he announced Neil Young. He wasn’t onstage.
Although their harmonies delighted my ears, I couldn’t barricade the pain. It felt like a knife had ripped a gaping hole in my heart. I had never once considered Leon wouldn’t answer his page, even if he had decided to stay with Shelly. I thought he was a much nicer person than that. I considered the possibility that he may have left when the storm blew in. Either way, I couldn’t stop the heartache. Or the regret.
When the final note from “Suite: Judy Blue Eyes” faded, the crowd cheered madly. And Stephen Stills spoke again. “Thank you. We needed that.”
