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Woodstock WeekendAugust 16 & 17, 1997. |
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Dan, you wound me. Dan was actually commenting (in the alt.peeves newsgroup) on the "Bridge Pedal" event in Portland, Oregon, the goal of which is to ride bicycles across all ten bridges in the city, but his comment comes so close to naming precisely what I did this past weekend I have to cringe. I'd been nurturing the idea for a couple of years. I grew up in Woodstock, New York, namesake of the most famous rock festival in the world. I'm proud of my hometown. I enjoy going back and seeing what has changed and what has remained the same. It's a tourist trap, a low-rent Disneyland for hippies, but I love it. Strangely, in my thirty-one years on the planet, and as many times as I've answered, "No, it didn't happen there," to exclamations of, "Oh! That's where that big festival was!", I'd never visited the real site of the '69 festival. Bethel, New York, is only about an hour-and-a-half from the living room where I watched first-run episodes of Room 222 and Laugh-In. I had been sorely remiss. So this idea fermented in my little head -- I need to get to Woodstock. After all, I am stardust, I am moonbeams, and I've got to get myself back to the ga-a-a-ar-den! Gradually, I became overly ambitious. Why stop with one Woodstock, I thought? After all, there must be others. So I looked in Rand McNally and I composed the following list:
It was quite a list. Could one hope to visit every one in one extended road trip? One might, if one put one's mind to it. Of course this sort of thing requires planning and money and time. I could secure one out of three. Not quite enough to realize my fondest dream. Well, okay, so it wasn't my fondest dream, but it was a dream nevertheless. Lacking adequate resources, the idea had to be shelved. Fast forward to this past Friday morning. I'd been trying for a good part of the week to get in touch with my friend Ellen in Boston. I wanted to get together with her and her boyfriend, Paul, in the city over the weekend. But she wasn't returning my calls (not unusual for her -- she's a workaholic research scientist who never seems to need to return home to eat or bathe or sleep). So by Friday morning I was desperate. I was determined not to lay about all weekend. I really wanted to get out of the house and do something. I found myself gazing stupidly at the calendar, not really thinking anything in particular. I noticed that Monday was the 18th -- my sister's wedding anniversary. That rang bells. I know, I thought, I need to send her a card! No, that wasn't it. Hmm, the 18th of August... the 18th of August... hey, the 18th of August was right near the 16th of August! Why, that was, that was... WOODSTOCK! Yes! The 28th anniversary of the Woodstock Festival! Screw my sister's anniversary, I had bigger fish to fry! I called up Dave. "Hey Dave, what'r'ya doing this weekend?" "Well, I'm going to be casting my play..." "Rory! What are you doing this weekend?" "Well, me and Jude are gonna..." "Jeff! What are you..." "I gotta work." It went on like that. Everyone had an excuse to avoid the greatest road trip idea since Hope met Crosby. I had run out of people I could ask. Horatio (not his real name) was in jail. I had an ex-girlfriend in North Scituate who probably would have been really up for such a trip four years ago, but not since we stopped talking to each other. Looked like I was on my own. Yup, just a lone rider on the highway of life, takin' the turns as they came. Just me against, um, me against... never mind. So the next morning I got up early, bought some picnic-type food to pack in the cooler, and I was off on my adventure. (Before I continue, just a note to allay the doubts of those of you who don't think all of the Woodstocks mentioned above can be visited in a single weekend. You're absolutely right. Only an idiot would think he could. But all the Woodstocks in New York and the New England States? That's possible. So back to our story.) I left Providence at around seven am and headed northwest.
I took a picture of a giant fiberglass ant in front of an exterminator's.
I took a picture of a huge boulder painted like a frog. I could already tell this trip was going to be special!
This Woodstock was a very quiet place at nine in the morning. It's probably very quiet at every time of the day. A sign outside town proclaimed, "Welcome to Woodstock, Home of the Woodstock Fair!" Sleepy as they might have seemed, they were certainly not ones to miss a trick. There isn't much else to say about this Woodstock other than that I couldn't find anything that looked like the center of town. I did, however, find the post office. I had decided at some point that it would be cool to send my co-workers a postcard from each Woodstock. Since I was unable to find any open stores in this first town, I had to settle for a plain white postcard that I purchased in the post office. On the back I scrawled, "This is Woodstock #1 -- Woodstock, CT." I was disappointed to learn that the card would not be postmarked in Woodstock, but in Hartford. I considered crying over it but decided not to. There would be other Woodstocks.
Waterbury is chock full of churches and many of the roads are named for saints. Maybe this is why Holy Land USA is located there. Holy Land USA was, at one time, some sort of amusement park for the religious, perched atop a hill overlooking downtown. Now its gates are closed and locked. All I could discern from looking through them was what looked like a weed-choked miniature Jerusalem inside. But Holy Land USA's huge silver cross is still visible from the highway. Look for it the next time you pass through on I-84.
I stopped in at Memories, one of those roadside tourist sucks that you usually drive past. I bought two "vintage" Woodstock '94 postcards for $2.95 a piece. Was I a sucker? Well, yes and no... and yes. I did, in fact, pay $5.90 for a pair of postcards that were probably worth, at best, .50 a piece. But I also bought them at that price with full knowledge that I was being suckered, figuring the extra was worth the story I would tell about the value-inflated cards later. So ultimately I was suckered, because preknowledge of being suckered and entering into an agreement to be suckered just for the irony of it, does not negate being suckered.
I stopped in Wurtsboro for gas and to ask information at the information booth. The woman there was very helpful, plying me with maps and brochures. "So tell me, is anything happening in Bethel this weekend?" "Maybe a riot!" she chuckled. "I heard on the news they had the place surrounded with state troopers and that they've dug trenches and put up barricades. I don't think you're going to get anywhere near there this weekend." "Why would they do that? There's been a gathering there every year for as long as I can remember." "Some new guy bought a controlling share in the property. He wants to turn the place into a permanent arts festival. But he didn't get any of the permits this year, so they're not letting anyone on the property. There's a court order." "Oh. Well thanks, but I think I'll try to see how close I can get anyway."
Bethel and White Lake are tiny towns surrounded by farmland and woods. They are the Woodstock that everyone knows. Or at least, the one they think they know. You won't see tie-dye for sale on White Lake's main street and Bethel does not boast a single head shop. I had no indication of which way to go -- no sign saying, "This way to the festival," (nor one saying, "Keep Out by Order of the New York Supreme Court", for that matter) -- and so I just drove randomly. At some point I stopped to scribble a message on one of the vintage cards and drop it in a postal box. It featured a photo of the monument that was erected in 1984 on the site of the original concert. I hoped I'd soon be able to see it for myself. I picked a direction and drove out into the peaceful countryside. Country highway, farm buildings, cows, fields, corn, corn, corn. Then I was upon it without warning. The sides of the road were suddenly clogged with Volkswagens, BMWs, Fords, Saabs, Toyotas. The field on the right side of the highway was filled with tents and people and motorcycles and... was that a psychedelically-painted schoolbus? My goodness, it was! I parked the Volvo behind a minivan with a "My Child is an Honor Student" bumper sticker. I saw no barricades and no trenches, and the few police I saw were merely cruising by, keeping an eye on the flannel-shirted teenagers who were directing traffic. As I waded into the crowd I noted that there were some farm buildings back a ways from the road. An old barn said "Yasgur" across the front. So this was the former home of the man himself. The field was ringed, on the sides away from the stage, with vendors selling tie-dye, rain sticks, incense, food, soda, beer, mixed drinks, arts & crafts. The scent of marijuana elusively wafted past my nostrils. It was only 2:30. An empty stage had been set up on one side of the field. In front of it, stacks of speakers tipping precariously toward the assembled crowd. I saw a bunch of tattooed bikers whooping it up. I saw a topless woman. I saw a group of clean-cut young men with white shirts and ties. Jehovah's Witnesses: they're everywhere. I joined a group of people who were watching another group of people pound on drums, tom-toms, congas, beer bottles, etc. A man with greasy blond hair appeared in the center of the group, wielding a shovel. As he bent over to begin laboriously digging a fire pit, I saw his paisley boxers peek... no, actually they gawked from the waist of his too-loose harem pants. He dug himself into a sweat, oblivious to the drummers, oblivious to the onlookers, and oblivious to his pants threatening to take leave of his hips. It was like performance art. Soon an unwashed fellow with a tambourine who seemed to fancy himself the leader of the musicians signaled for them to stop drumming. Then he gave a half-intelligible speech which apparently had something to do with the fact that this was the 28th anniversary of Woodstock and we were all here together and we were all going to have a lot of fun and wasn't that great? I had to agree. Growing bored, I wandered away toward the farmhouse. I was looking for The Plaque. Yes, The Plaque. You know, an historical site is not quite real unless you see The Plaque that explains why the site has historical significance. I asked a guy who was minding a large grill if he knew where it might be. "Oh geez, that's not here," he said, arming sweat off his forehead. "It's about two miles down the road. This is just Max's farmhouse; the plaque is where the main stage was. You just go down the road there. You'll see it. You can't miss it." Actually, I could miss it. I had to stop at the Woodstock Emporium and ask someone for more specific directions. "Oh sure. Go out of the parking lot, take a right, and then take your first left onto Hurd Road. It's down there a little bit." I found three police cars parked at the end of Hurd Road. I drove past warily, wondering what that was about, and then continued on, looking for the monument. About a mile down the road I saw it. Or to be truthful, I spotted the troopers first. This was apparently where the trenches and barricades were. The Plaque was located in the corner of a field to the right of a four-way intersection. State troopers were hanging around in the middle of the intersection, talking with drivers through their windows. A small group of people were at The Plaque, evidently gazing upon it with reverential awe. I drove through the intersection (warily again) and parked several yards down on the right. "Yo!" (muffled) I rolled down my window and looked back. A statie gestured to me. "Move it on out!" I queried him as to why he would issue such an order. He replied that no parking was allowed, by order of the New York Supreme Court, and that if I wanted to see The Plaque, I could drive back to the end of Hurd Road, park, and walk in. Or, if I were so provisioned, I could get my passenger to drive the car around while I looked at The Plaque. I glanced at the passenger side of my car. It was regrettably devoid of a passenger. Since arguing with police officers is not something I enjoy (nor do I think it's very smart), I figured I was licked. I moved it on out. But as I was driving away from Hurd Road, I gave myself a good talking to. I wasn't about to pick up a scraggly hitch-hiker and give him the keys to my luxury car so that I could go look at a plaque, even if it was The Plaque. However, as I thought more, I realized it wasn't The Plaque I really wanted. I already had a perfectly good postcard that showed The Plaque well enough to read the inscription. What I wanted was pictures of the roadblock and the barricades and the trenches and the cops. I turned around. I drove back past the three cop cars at the head of Hurd Road feeling like I was about to plant a terrorist bomb. But the troopers hardly gave me a glance as I cruised through the intersection twice, snapping pictures from the window of my car. Success! On to the next Woodstock!
No, DeBruce wasn't a Woodstock. It's the town that lends its name to the summer camp I attended in 1978 -- DeBruce Conservation Camp. Ah, memories! And it looked pretty much the same, only I had remembered the stream being bigger, and it was over there. And did we really walk that far to get to the lake? Okay, so the weird thing about Camp DeBruce is that, years before we ever met at Bard, Dave and I both went there. Probably a year apart, but we were both there. Okay, maybe it's not so weird. So there I was, out in the middle of nowhere. I decided to follow some of the little squiggles on the map to find my way to my old hometown. Hey, I grew up there. I'd know it when I saw it, right? So I drove up mountains and down into valleys and up mountains and down... you probably get the idea. It was raining, it was dark in the woods, I was lost. It was cool. Suddenly, within the blink of an eye, I knew exactly where I was! See, I told you I'd find my way. How could I forget this hill? I pedaled up and down this hill dozens of times for some idiot boy scout fund-raiser! Yeah, I know this curve. And that driveway, and this... but, uh, that doesn't look familiar. Okay, wait a minute. Where the hell am I?
I pulled into town around 6:30 and staged a lightning postcard strike on the Golden Notebook. The postcard I chose to send was of an original '69 festival advertising poster. On the way out of town I snapped an obligatory photo of the "Welcome to Woodstock, Colony of the Arts" sign.
My dad lives in Saugerties. He and my step-mother were actually able to walk from their house to the '94 Woodstock Festival. That's right, my old man's been to one and I haven't. Kind of ironic, given his musical preferences. He stayed out of the mosh pit, though. The postcard I sent from Saugerties showed the cover of an old pulp adult novel called "Hippie Harlot" by Tom O'Brien. The cover teaser read, "The Hippie Art Colony produced all kinds of art, but some of the by-products couldn't be shown in any art gallery." Feeling that time was tight, I was a bad son and didn't stop in to see my parents, but I made sure to get a picture of one of the entrances to the '94 festival site before I left town.
I had to stop somewhere for the night. I chose Bard. Yes, those of you with good memories will recall that Tildy was at Bard to finish her master's thesis, but I want you all to stop thinking what you're thinking. Here's what we did: we talked a lot, we waded in the falls with our clothes on, we went out for pizza at Fairgrounds Pizza, talked a lot more and went to bed in separate beds. You people have filthy minds. We got up the next morning and went for breakfast at the Red Hook Diner. Afterwards I accompanied Tildy to feed Professor Berthold-Bond's very friendly, muddy-pawed dogs, and then I turned the nose of the trusty Volvo toward Vermont.
Ah, Vermont. Lovely, isn't it? I wanted to stop in Bennington and ask about their 9-foot ladderback chair, but the town was apparently hosting some sort of parade and I got trapped there behind a tractor trailer truck for a half hour. I decided that with so little mobility, it wasn't worth trying to track down the monstrous chair, so I took my first opportunity to hop on the highway and head north.
This was the best incorporated Woodstock of them all by far (Max Yasgur's farm isn't incorporated and so it doesn't count). They had a nifty, genuine covered bridge right in town (built 1969), a large village green and quaint historical architecture. They were also having a small art exhibition on the green. And there were loads of tourists. The postcard I picked to send was of the oldest licensed jitney vehicle in the United States, a 1911 nine-passenger Stanley Steamer, which was apparently still being used by a touring company in town.
I stopped at Quechee Gorge and looked over the bridge railing. Yeah, it was a pretty deep trench all right. I bought maple candy in the souvenir shop. Farther down the road I had to stop at a roadside stand selling gardening supplies. It was perched atop a grassy hill and was surrounded by those fake sheep and cows that people put in their yards -- hundreds of them! Cheesy! I snapped a few pictures. I stopped immediately after at Scotland By The Yard. SBTY sells nothing but products from Scotland. Kilts, kilt-pins, tweed jackets, Thistleware pottery, tartan scarves, tartan blankets, tartan ties! Right there in the middle of Vermont! Whoodathunk.
As much as I had hoped to make it to Mount Washington before heading for home, I could tell the relentless turning of the earth wasn't going to allow me do it. I pulled into North Woodstock at around 5:45. It was a quiet Sunday evening. All the stores were closed. All the restaurants were open. On the terrace of one of them, a guy with a guitar serenaded customers with stirring renditions of "I've Just Seen A Face" and "I'm A Believer." Heading south to find Woodstock itself, I drove past it and had to go back. It was a obvious case of the sequel being better than the original. The town of Woodstock, New Hampshire, was miniscule, yet it was the only Woodstock, I would later discover, that could supply me with an eponymous postmark. Odd. The postcard I chose was of Georges Pierre Seurat's La Grande Jatte. Witty speech balloons had been superimposed in front of the proper-looking couple on the right side of the painting. The man said, "Everything is little dots and all out of focus..." And the woman replied, "Don't worry darling, after you're finished with your drug dependency program it will all look like Michaelangelo again." Ha ha ha! Damn, it's still funny!
I got stuck in an hour-long traffic jam for no apparent reason.
Is there anything as good as driving through Boston at 70 miles an hour? Especially after being stuck in an hour-long traffic jam in Concord?
I fell into bed and slept the sleep of the damned.
I had the opportunity to attend the 30th anniversary concert, Woodstock '99 -- had been looking forward to it in fact -- but after much thought I had to decide against it. The idea of spending $125 for the privilege of fighting crowds, camping in the mud, paying extortionary prices for lousy food and going two or three nights with little or no sleep, all in order to see a few out of a long list of bands and be a part of some big "defining moment" for a generation that I was too old to be a part of was, frankly, distasteful at best. I instead spent the weekend puttering around nearer to home: attending a party for my friend Jon Benet (not his real name) who had just been released from jail, catching as many entries in the Providence Film Festival as I could and helping Dan (his real name) brainstorm an ad campaign for a sham product named after a part of the male anatomy. I think I made the right choice. By the way, I hear Holy Land USA is undergoing renovations. Might be time for another trip.
original 19970821 revised 20000225 |