“This is our second gig,” David Crosby said. “This is the second time we’ve ever played in front of people. We’re scared shitless.”
I was the one scared shitless. I didn’t even know where I would sleep that night. Or the next.
After they finished a beautiful version of the Beatles’ “Blackbird,” Graham Nash spoke to the audience in his lovely British accent. “Let’s do a Stephen Stills song. I think one of the best ever written. It’s called ‘Helplessly Hoping.’”
I couldn’t have agreed more. While their angelic, unmistakable harmonies wafted through the pasture, I listened closely. “Helplessly Hoping” was a poem about two people who love each other but must say goodbye, for a reason unknown. I hadn’t understood the song when I first heard it in my closet, but after meeting Leon, its meaning crystallized. While Stephen sang about the empty place inside, I knew what he meant. The poet was lost, helplessly in love. He was wondering if he would ever have another love to fill the void she had left.
As their three-part harmony faded, and one of the prettiest tunes I’d ever heard came to a close, I grew not only weary but sick and tired of sadness. Sick and tired of tears.
Stop obsessing over someone you can’t have. Stop it right now! What are you going to do, cry for the rest of your life? Of course you’ll love again. For God’s sake, girl, don’t let this moment pass you by. You are at Woodstock. This is your once-in-a-lifetime concert! Go down front and enjoy the rest of it.
While David Crosby sang lead vocals on “Guinnevere,” I shimmied through the crowd in a hurry, squeezing between hundreds of people, determined to get as close as I could. I finally made it to the front, then nudged my way in between two guys who smiled at me, glad I was there. One passed me a joint, but I declined. I wanted to be as clearheaded as a child while watching my new favorite band.
Wrapped up in Brady’s Indian blanket, with my bare feet sunken in the cold mud, I allowed their melodies to once again lift me high in the air. I felt my confidence rising. And my resolve taking root. One day I’d get a record deal too. As soon as Ron got back, we’d be that family duo he always talked about. We’d play at the Whisky a Go Go to a sellout crowd.
I just knew it.
Woodstock
Day Four
Monday, August 18, 1969
6:00 a.m.
After the Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young set was over, I chatted for a long time with some of the Woodstockers in my row—all of us raving about the far-out performance—then headed straight for the butterfly meadow in search of my clothes.
While strolling down Gentle Path, I mused over my time at Woodstock. Although I was riding high with hope about my future as a singer, my heart still groaned from the thought of never seeing Leon again. Perhaps he was only meant to be a signpost, I reasoned, a guiding light on my path to freedom. Whatever the case, I was a stronger person for having met him. He had helped me to discover the real me.
I’d do my best to stop blaming myself for leaving my diary on my bed. I hadn’t meant to; it was a mistake. I didn’t cause Ron’s enlistment. I knew that now. Leon had helped me to understand.
This weekend had helped me to see that someone could be the most beautiful girl in the world, but if her inside didn’t match her outside, so what? All the hours I’d spent obsessing over Livy’s beauty had been a big waste of time.
As I made my way down Gentle Path, I saw the sun’s first rays sparkling from the tips of the trees like diamonds. Once I spotted the tire swing, I knew my way. Following an imaginary train of butterflies, I strolled out to the first meadow. People were sleeping. So I crept through the dewy foliage with my eyes pinned to the ground, softly kicking at the weeds. Finding my jacket was imperative. It was the only one I had. The tall, dew-glistened reeds of goldenrod made my search more difficult, but I knew my clothes would be there. No one at Woodstock would take anything that didn’t belong to them.
Once I’d made it to the second meadow, I noticed a dude sitting with his back against a tree. His legs were stretched out on the grass below. It was hard to tell if he was awake or asleep, as his head hung to the side. I tried to be quiet, but the stillness amplified the sound of my feet shifting through the grass.
“Hey,” he called, startling me.
I wanted to ignore him, but that was not the Woodstock way, so I glanced over my shoulder, gave him a quick wave, and returned to my search.
“Morning,” he said louder.
I knew that voice. Relief melted throughout my body, yet I was caught so off guard words escaped me. I just stood there gaping at Leon, while he did the same to me.
“It’s about time you decided to show up,” he said.
“How long have you been here?” I asked, walking toward him.
He picked at something in the corner of his eye, then scratched the top of his head. “Four hours. Maybe more—”
“Fourhours?”
“You didn’t answer your page, so I figured it was the only chance I had of seeing you again.”
I stopped moving as my relief crashed and burned. “You paged me? When? I never heard it.”
He moved back and forth against the tree, like he was scratching his back. “I paged you. I went back to the Hog Farm. I camped out atthe information booth. I’ve basically gone back to every place I thought you’d be within three square miles. Where have you been?” There was a harsh tone to his voice. Cords in his neck bulged as he ogled Brady’s Indian blanket.
