Once inside, I noticed a camping area with a bountiful number of tents and tepees and hay bale huts. An open-air kitchen had been set up on the opposite side, where a line of hippie girls sliced vegetables and cantaloupe. More girls dumped veggies into giant pots. The aroma smelled amazing. And made my stomach lurch. I’d have just about killed somebody for a McDonald’s cheeseburger, fries, and a real Coke.
In the center of the camping area, graffiti-laden psychedelic school buses, painted in all colors of the rainbow, encircled a wooden stage. A hundred hippies or so stretched out on the damp ground, relaxing and listening to live music. Little children ran about—some clothed, others naked—and several dogs darted to and fro. Girls my age, dressed in halter tops and flowy skirts, danced around freely, like butterfliesfloating from flower to flower, enjoying the tranquility of commune life. I’d never heard of a commune before coming to Woodstock. And now I was in the middle of one.
On the stage, a four-piece band with a lead singer whose voice reminded me of John Lennon sang an unfamiliar tune. Leon and I sat down among the other listeners, settling in on the back row. There was no mud, just grass—a welcome chance to sit in a clean place and rest for a while. A couple named Linda and Wes passed us a joint. We each took a couple of tokes and sent it back.Look at me,I thought,freely smoking marijuana out in the open, when I was scared of it a day ago.
As the band exited the platform, the man we’d seen directing traffic yesterday—the one wearing the white jumpsuit—ambled over to the center microphone.
Leon leaned close to my face, whispering, “That’s the commune leader, the one I saw on the news.”
I turned toward him, felt our cheeks grazing. “He was the one blowing the kazoo when we came in yesterday,” I said. With Leon’s face brushing mine, more butterflies waltzed inside my stomach.
“I think he’s an actor or a clown. Something like that.”
“Let’s give a big thank-you to Dylan McDonald and the Avians,” the commune leader bellowed, with both hands holding on to the microphone stand.
People clapped and cheered. But when his chin hit the mic by mistake, making an awful screeching noise, everyone covered their ears.
He apologized for his error by giving us a silly, clown-like face, then glanced at his watch. “We have time for one more.” He peered into the audience, shading his eyes.
From where we were sitting, I saw a few people turn to one another, as if they were considering his request. But no one actually volunteered.
“Aww, come on. It would begroovyif somebody sang us another song. You don’t even have to be good! Just lead us in ‘Kumbaya’ or something. Don’t be shy. We’re all family here.”
Leon took the Best Cola from my hand, sipped it, and then placed it down on the grass in front of him. “What about you?” he said, raising his brows.
Purely for effect, I turned my head slowly, looked him square in the face. “Have you lost your mind? I’ve never sung in front—” Before I could finish my sentence, his hand shot up in the air. From outside my body, I watched him pointing down over my head. By the time I gained the wherewithal to yank his hand away, it had already caught the attention of the commune leader.
“Groovy! Come on up here, milady.” He beckoned me with both hands and a wide grin. The man truly did remind me of a clown, jovial and lighthearted. His missing front teeth didn’t stop him from smiling at all.
But I wasn’t budging.
As I sat there like a stunned mouse, paralyzed, unable to speak, he called on me again. “Don’t be timid. What’s your name?” His voice sounded hoarse, and the weekend wasn’t half over.
“Suzannah,” I mumbled. It was hardly loud enough for the people in the next row to hear, much less him, many yards away. “I’m gonna kill you,” I said to Leon, ventriloquist-style.
“I can’thearyou,” the leader singsonged, sounding just like Gertie.
Leon cupped his hands on either side of his mouth, belting, “Suzie.”
In an instant, almost everyone turned around to look at me. Hundreds of smiling eyes pierced through me. One guy in front turned and said, “Go ahead, Suzie. Nothing to be afraid of.” The girl to my left wrapped an arm around my shoulders. “Give it a try. We’re all family here.” The tenderness on her face, and in her voice, comforted me somewhat, but I was still glued to the ground. Atinypart of me wanted to try, but deep down I was terrified. Not only did I have zero experience singing in front of a real audience, but I looked like Pig-Pen. Hardly the look for a singing debut.
The temperature couldn’t have been more than seventy degrees, yet at the thought of getting up in front of that many people—on a real stage—beads of sweat had already formed in between my breasts. And under my arms. Feeling pressured, I called out from my seat, “I don’t have a guitar.”
“What’s that?” the leader asked, with a hand cupped to his ear. “Speak a little louder, milady. You’re on the back row.”
“She didn’t bring a guitar,” someone yelled, a few rows ahead.
He waved away my excuse like he was swatting a fly. “Eh, that’s easy.” He glanced at a band member from the last act who stood at the side of the stage. “Ian, can Suzie borrow your guitar, man?”
I watched Ian remove the strap from his neck and hold his guitar high in the air. But I still wouldn’t budge.
When the commune leader led everyone to chant my name, the reality of the situation finally sank in. As much as I wanted to resist, there was no way out. And of all people, Leon was to blame.
“Su-zie. Su-zie. Su-zie,” I heard the Hog Farmers chanting. They wouldn’t stop.
With no other choice, except chickening out like a pantywaist, I peered at Leon. “I’m gonna kill you. I am honestly going to kill you.”
Covering his head with the crook of his arm, he winced. “My mom will be sad.”
