Friday, August 15, 1969
2:00 p.m.
We finally made it to White Lake—a hamlet of Bethel—two full hours after abandoning Pally. My mouth felt like a piece of dry toast. My feet ached, and I longed to sit down, even for five minutes. But Livy was in a mad rush. She didn’t pause when we passed a man offering Cokes for sale. Or even look at the truck selling yummy-looking watermelon, with a long line of folks wrapped around twice.
So I kept walking. For her sake.
White Lake was a quaint little place with charming houses and motels encircling a crystal-blue lake. The number of cars that had invaded it was mind boggling. It looked like thousands of Hot Wheels had been dropped from the sky, landing haphazardly. It was one thing to see them abandoned on the highway—another to see them overrunning the town. With the multitude of tents pitched on either side of the road, it made it hard to know if grass actually grew underneath.
Homeowners sat in lawn chairs, waving as the sojourners passed. By their widened eyes and straight-lined lips, it seemed they were waving at freaks in a circus parade. Nevertheless, many of the townsfolk offeredrefreshments for sale, includingwater. Hard to imagine paying money for the most natural resource in America, but I couldn’t stand it any longer. I marched right up to an old man selling water and bologna sandwiches. I didn’t care how late we were; Livy could just be mad.
As soon as I opened my mouth to order, I heard her behind me. “Excuse me, sir. Where is the festival?”
“You’ve come a long way, little lady,” the man said. “Can tell by that pretty drawl of yours.” Even this old geezer wanted to flirt with our beauty queen.
But I needed water. And I needed it now. “May I please have—”
Another Livy interruption. “Yes sir, we have come a long way. Where is the festival? Please.”
“Yasgur’s dairy farm. No one else ’round here would have had it,” he muttered under his breath.
Johnny, who was standing next to me, asked, “Why’s that, sir?”
Livy interrupted a third time before the old man could explain. “Is Yasgur’s dairy farm far?”
“Three miles. Maybe a little less.” He pointed to his right. “You’re almost th—”
“Three miles!” She sighed loudly. “We’ve just walked fifteen.”
“More like six,” said Johnny. “We’ll take four sandwiches and four ...” He hesitated. “How much for the water?”
The old man wouldn’t look him in the eye. “Twenty-five cents. It’s a large cup full.”
Johnny glanced back at Leon, whispering, “We could buy a loaf of bread for twenty.”
Leon just shrugged.
“Free refills,” the old man added.
“Okay, four sandwiches and four waters, please,” said Johnny. He handed the man a five-dollar bill.
“Thank you,” I said, anticipating the cool water bathing my tongue.
Once the man handed over the water, you’d have thought all four of us had spent three days in a desert by the way we downed the cups and asked for more. Even Livy.
“That Max Yasgur is a hippie lover,” the man said while stuffing our sandwiches inside a paper bag.
Johnny winked at Leon. “Is that right?”
“People ’round here been boycotting his milk ’cause of it.” The sound of Livy’s foot tapping against the pavement caused the man’s gaze to travel from her face to her feet. “What’s your hurry, little lady?”
Livy let out a loud “Ugh,” throwing her hands up in exasperation. She turned on her heel and stormed off.
Johnny was still collecting his change. I didn’t know whether to wait with the boys or rush to catch up with her. All I knew was that I wasn’t ready to tell them goodbye. Or let go of the hope that we’d all sit together once we got to the festival.
Johnny yelled after her, “Don’t wig out, love. You’ll find your man.”
Livy stopped, then turned to face us—forced smile, arms crossed, foot tapping.
