THE FIRST CITIZEN OF WOODSTOCK NATION

The summer of 1969 was one continuous rock concert. Our crowd of recent (or soon-to-be) college graduates traveled to various outdoor venues seemingly every weekend, Atlantic City Racetrack to see Santana, Watkins Glen to see Janice Joplin, almost always joined by three or four surprise headliners that all rocked from early afternoon to midnight. And then there was “3 Days of Peace & Music, August 16,17, and 18,” otherwise known as Woodstock.

For a nanosecond in history, we were our own nation, isolated from the rest of the world. Arlo Guthrie stood on the stage and proudly declared, “The New York Thruway’s closed, man. Can you dig it? Ha! Lotsa’ freaks!” Estimates put the number around 500,000. We knew something was up when we came to a dead stop outside Monticello, New York, still a dozen or so miles from the grounds.

We were in a two car caravan, William, Sheila, and their merry band in the quintessential VW bus with Carl’s Triumph motorcycle strapped on the back (“just in case we need it around the grounds”) followed by another half-dozen of us in my parents’ overstuffed Oldsmobile. We planned to arrive early afternoon so we could find a good spot to set up camp and the see the stage. But the line of cars ahead was not moving. William climbed on top of the VW bus and said, “This is as close as we were gonna get.” The scene was mind-blowing. Cars stretched ahead for a quarter mile, all stopped. At the head of the line, cars were pulling onto lawns to park, the road ahead clogged shoulder to shoulder with people. A few cars made u-turns and tried heading back, either faint hearts scared away or wise guys looking for a different way. We held a car top to car top conference. I was familiar with this area from my summers working at hotels and assured everyone there was no other way.

William jumped down and offered the family gawking at us $10 to park the two cars on their lawn. When they hesitated, he threw in the promise of a ride on Carl’s motorcycle for their awestruck twelve-year-old when we returned Sunday afternoon. We pulled onto their lawn, grabbed our backpacks and sleeping bags, unstrapped the bike and set out on foot for the promised land, Carl scootering along astride his silent Triumph.
It took us more than six hours to cover the twelve miles, but as the saying goes, getting there was half the fun. Food, drink, drugs, and good vibes flitted atop the river of hippies like water bugs dancing on a babbling brook.

It was past 8:00 by the time we reached the grounds, fences trampled, security breached, tickets superfluous. Fortunately, it was still light enough for us to pick our way over folks and stake claim to about 150 square feet of semi-dry ground with a long view of the distant stage and scaffolding. We assumed Joan Baez was the small dot providing the beautiful, quavering tones of Joe Hill. Thoroughly stoned from shared marijuana on the hike in, we nevertheless set about rolling joints, which we fired up and passed around to neighbors. Other drugs were arriving steadily. I seem to remember our balance of trade was favorable. The carefree stupor, the soft drizzle pierced by electric guitars, beautiful harmonies musical and otherwise, all contributed to an otherworldly aura which amplified our humanity. Had the weather held out it would have been the ultimate company picnic. But it didn’t.
The occasional drizzle turned steady and intensified, the mud became a quagmire, soft wafts of warm air morphed into chilly gusts, and by Saturday afternoon it was a contest between man and nature. Our own hardy clan awoke shortly after dawn, knee deep in mud. The carefully planned precautions of the night before were all for naught. Food and drugs were soaked beyond recognition, let alone use. Sleeping bags were soggy and filthy, as were our clothes. But you know, Jimi Hendrix awakened us with a ten minute electric rendition of the Star-Spangled Banner, and smiles, claps on backs, and raised fists repelled the gloom as the weekend wore on. Efforts were under way nationwide— that’s Woodstock Nationwide—to aid those in need. One tent became an infirmary, dealing mostly with D.T.’s and bad trips. Another tent was pooling and distributing edible food. Our stars were not just performing, they were instructing and inspiring, using the stage like a pulpit to disseminate information. Cursing the government (Gimme’ an ‘F’, Gimme’ a ‘U’…) they became the government, warning us about bad drugs and ripoff artists, communicating like town criers of old, “Barbara, meet your sister at the pink and white tent, she just had a baby.”

The first citizen of Woodstock Nation.