“What’s that?”
“Why you didn’t get pissed off at Livy when she laughed at you for asking if smelling grass gets ya high. The girls I know would have clawed her eyes out.” He followed with a boisterous chuckle, then took hold of the large bag of Lay’s potato chips that had been passed down the aisle. A jug of water followed.
“I did get mad!” I said, indignancy lacing my tone.
“Could have fooled me.” With a glance inside the chip bag, he pulled out a handful, then passed it my way.
“I just didn’t do it in front of you and Johnny. I didn’t want to make y’all uncomfortable.”
“We wouldn’t have cared.” He threw a chip in the air, caught it with his mouth. After swallowing hastily, he added, “Is that what Memphis belles do? Look out for everyone else but themselves?”
“I wouldn’t say that. But we sure don’t like making people feel funny. Don’t Northern girls care about that?” I raised my eyebrows, tossing him a saucy smile.
“Not really. They flat out tell you what they think.” Leon laughed that laugh. That adorable laugh. “Chicks from the North do not hold back.”
“Neither do I.” I crammed a handful of chips in my mouth, felt my taste buds exploding from the salt.
His silly grin made me chuckle. And that made me choke.
“You okay?” he asked, leaning in close.
With a hand over my mouth, I gave him a thumbs-up but struggled for air, coughing my brains out. Everyone around us turned to stare at me as Leon passed me the water jug.
My eyes had filled with tears by the time I recovered. “You know what they say. You can’t eat just one.”
Roaring cheers sounded from the audience.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer said, “one of the most beautiful men in the whole world. Let’s welcome Mr. Richie Havens.”
Woodstock had officially begun.
And so had I.
Woodstock
Day One
Friday, August 15, 1969
5:05 p.m.
A few minutes after five, a man dressed in white pants and a long orange tunic strolled out from behind the stage. Richie Havens, an extremely tall fellow, settled down on a wooden stool, propping his acoustic guitar atop his thigh. “Hello!” he bellowed into the mic. “Can you hear?”
As a loud chorus ofyeses rose from the field, Leon turned toward me with an animated grin.
“Groovy. Okay. Wow,” said Richie. “It’s really beautiful to see so many people together.” He had a gentle presence about him, and I found his voice soothing. Without another word, he started in with a haunting number about a man in prison.
Prison.Had I actually broken out of mine? Or had I stepped into a fantastical dream? It seemed impossible to imagine my courage, but when I eyed Richie on the massive stage in front of me and pinched a hunk of skin on my arm, Iknewthis was no dream.
After several more unfamiliar songs, Richie took things up a notch when he played a tune I knew. Livy and I had heard the Beatles’ version of “With a Little Help from My Friends” while listening toSgt. Pepper’sin the car. Richie told the crowd he hadn’t learned it yet and asked us to fill in the words. I found that strange. Why would he even play it if he didn’t know the lyrics? Especially at Woodstock.
I looked curiously at Leon.
He laid a hand on my thigh. “He’s stalling.”
“How do you know that?” I asked, far more interested in his hand than Richie’s song choice.
“Look at the road.” He removed his hand, unfortunately, to point behind the stage. No cars or trucks were moving. Total gridlock.
