The 40th anniversary of Woodstock is happening this week. Nothing better typified the era of peace and love than this three-day festival that took place on a 600-acre dairy farm in the upstate New York town of Bethel. It featured many of the best musical acts of the 1960s as it celebrated the free spirit, drug-enhanced, “anything goes” attitude of the generation.
The first time I heard about Woodstock was through my older brother. It was a balmy, late spring night as the neighborhood gang gathered on Meridian Place on Long Island. (Aside: My dog’s name was Teddy, so my porn name would be Teddy Meridian. Hey, it really does work!) My brother Richard, being a worldly sixteen, was attuned to all things cutting edge. He had recently learned about the concert in upstate New York and was boasting that it would be the event of a lifetime. Never has he said more truthful words. Richard, if he had his way, was not going to miss it. He tracked down a local “entrepreneur” who was offering, not only tickets to the event, but also transportation back and forth -- and complete accommodations. His buddy Richard Black was on board. All they needed were reservations.
My parents had other ideas. No way were they going to let their 16-year-old travel three-and-a-half hours away to something like this. My brothers dreams of Woodstock were quickly shattered. If I remember correctly, it turned out for the best. The package deal he had found turned out to be a scam. According to the news reports, takers never left Long Island.
Instead, I turned out to be the one in upstate New York the weekend of Woodstock. But before you start thinking how cool I was, I must let you know that I was actually at Woodworth Lake, a boy scout camp just north of Gloversville, NY.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
The following day we crawled back home. And as my dad grumbled, I watched the endless lines of cars going the other way, trying to imagine what was transpiring. The picture became much clearer in the months that followed as the LP hit the stores and Michael Wadleigh’s documentary (featuring the editing talents of fledgling filmmakers Martin Scorsese and Thelma Schoonmaker) came out in theaters. My knowledge of the latter was only fleeting. It was “R-rated” and I was much too young to see it at the time. But I did gather enough from the trailer and commercials to realize how close I was to something truly amazing.
And that pretty much sums up my experience with that era -- so close, and yet so far. I was old enough to be able to see everything unfold, yet too young to be a viable part of it. Instead, I was a child of Disco (which I hate to this day) and white polyester suits.
I don’t know which fate was crueler. Missing out on the former or having to live through the latter. But I guess I can take some solace in knowing I was at Woodstock... sort of.
Woodworth... Woodstock.... Who knew? Missed it by that much!
But, that’s not to say there wasn’t a brush with the historic event.
My week of scouting in the wilderness was winding up on Friday, August 15. My father was scheduled to drive up to Woodworth that afternoon, spend the night, and then shuttle a carload of scouts back down to Long Island the following morning.
Dad’s estimated time of arrival was about 5:00 PM. This came and went without any sign of him. Soon, 6:00 PM passed. No dad. For the younger readers among us, please remember this was before the days of cell phones, so there was no way to check in and make sure he was okay. As the clock ticked past 7:00, we were getting concerned. Where was dad?
Finally, about 8:30, as we were in the midst of the lakefront aquatic games, Dad finally appeared. He was hot, tired and very angry. My dad has always been a very patient man with a long fuse. But if he reaches the end of that fuse... look out! He was fuming about “those damn hippies and that #*$%&* concert.” He had gotten caught up in the throngs descending on Bethel. Woodstock closed down Interstate 87. The normally three-and-a-half hour trip took over seven hours that night.
