Remembering Woodstock

Forty years ago last weekend I was like thousands of other teenagers: I was packed tightly into a station wagon full of people and we were headed north to the Catskills. I still remember that weekend vividly, even after all these decades. We were in a caravan of thousands, many vehicles brimming over with occupants (remember, this was the era of no seatbelts and metal dashboards, so Lord knows how we all survived). We were on our way to Woodstock.

Well, most of the people on the New York Thruway seemed to be. Me, I was with my sister, mother, grandmother, two dogs and my father driving, and we were going past Yasgur’s Farm (or Bethel, if you prefer, as Woodstock was not held in Woodstock, per se, but many miles away) to continue on Route 28 to our family’s weekend house in tiny Kelly Corners. (Don’t look for it on the map; look for Margaretville, the next town over.)

While I spent that weekend most likely running through the uncrowded open spaces, little did I know my life was going to be changing so thanks to that weekend. I recall reading about the event in the paper. I remember my dad guffawing at “all those hippies” waving merrily and flashing the peace sign as we cruised by them on the road.

I also recall the next year when my dear friend Betty Joe took me to see the movie “Woodstock.” Honestly, while I was captivated by the reality of seeing (and hearing) Country Joe McDonald singing “Fixin’-to-Die Rag” (with its jubilantly defiant F-word chorus), the flashes of bare breasts from the frolicking female attendees (I had yet to meet any girls like that) and the silliness of the interview with the Port-O-San guy (who, if I recall correctly, later sued the moviemakers feeling he has been humiliated for doing his job), But the lasting image from Woodstock is Jimi Hendrix playing the “Star Spangled Banner.” He was amazing, and today I am still mesmerized by his artistry.

Almost 25 years later, I had the pleasure of attending the Telluride Bluegrass Festival in Colorado. It’s the closest I’ve come to a Woodstock-like epiphany-like experience. And I’m good with that. Watching the movie “Woodstock” got me close enough to that action, even though I must admit I have enjoyed reading all the recent articles featuring the reminiscences of those who attended.

Someday I hope to make it to Woodstock, or really Bethel, to see the museum on the site of the event. Meanwhile, I plan on buying the DVD (have had the CD for years) and watching it—without 350,000 of my closest “friends” nearby.