I’ve written about my Woodstock adventure several times. Like any good story, it got bigger, better, and more profound as years pass and embellishments became part of the reality. My mission to reclaim my honesty demanded that I come clean and tell you what really happened to me that August in 1969.

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 Instead of my behemoth Olds ’98, which died in an altercation with an ice cream truck the prior summer, I drove a cool little 1960 MGA. Cool was perceptual, as the car was hot as boardwalk pavement in the summer. Still, as British cars went, it was fairly reliable. It got me to where I was going, sometimes with the added drama of pieces falling off at awkward times and places—like at midnight while on an interstate exit ramp when the front grill MG badge flew off and cracked the windshield. Nonetheless, it was a cool little ride drawing peace sign “vee’s” and double takes from pedestrians and other motorists.

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 Starting out on a clear crisp August morning, I headed north on Rt. 94 to NY 17b toward White Lake. Passing through NY villages that included a last-century Hasidic community reminding me of an Amish settlement. Both men and women dressed in black with traditional head coverings. Soon after turning on to 17b in New York,  traffic came to a dead stop, then it crawled, then back to a dead stop.  I guessed this was the required dues for an outdoor music festival. 

 

            Crisp morning air eventually melted into hot stagnation. Engine heat crept up around the transmission tunnel into the cockpit like a sinister demon, loving and temperate at first, then stabbing at my feet with long hot fangs. The heat crept up my legs as I sat captive in the driver’s seat. The back of my shirt was drenched in sweat; I felt like I was sitting in a Turkish bath!  

            

            Steam wafted through the seams between hood and fenders. I pulled off the road, shut it down to let the motor cool, then pulled the hood release, allowing the heat to better dissipate. I watched the heat waves from my car blend with the ones rising from the macadam to create a bizarre, rippled ‘Twilight Zone’ effect.  

            

            At this point I wasn’t fazed. I was in an adventure of sight, sound, and mind; whatever will be, will be, the signpost up ahead read: “next stop, who knew?”

 

            While I waited along the road for the radiator to cool, I watched the crowds go past mostly shaggy-haired and smiling. Many of the girls often wore long peasant skirts while the boys were in bell-bottoms and tee-shirts, laughing and enjoying each other’s company. I wanted to join in the parade too but had to take care of the car first. After the car cooled, I secured the hood and cranked the engine back to life.  As I moved towards the road a couple of girls came by.

            

            “Can we hitch a ride?” one of them asked.

            

            “Sure!”

            

            They introduced themselves as they squeezed in, offering open and friendly conversations as my new passengers. 

             

            The girls were very pretty, both with long dark hair, one curly, the other straight, both parted in the middle, dressed in filmy maxi dresses in paisley patterns, smelling of aromatic oils. Their names? Rebecca? Madeline?  Maybe, I don’t remember. Both were pale and seemed nervous about their adventure. 

                        

            “Do you want a sandwich?” One asked.

            

            “Sure. Thanks.” I took the Velveeta cheese in a folded piece of Wonder bread. 

            

            A couple of shared joints followed and conversation drifted from serious to giddy. The war, the draft, and of course music were the main topics. 

            

            “Do you play anything? “ asked the second girl, the one with the glasses. “I play a recorder.” She volunteered.            

            

            “A what? You mean like a tape recorder of some sort?”

            

            The young women looked at each other and laughed while rolling their eyes.

                        

            “No, No, No! It’s like a flute, but wood and you play it vertically.  I’ll show you…“

            

            She pulled at her travel bag to show me her small wooden recorder, and began to play a slow, mellow tune that evoked some sort of fifteenth-century ballad. I was instantly transported to a different time and now realized why they were so popular with modern songwriters and folk singers. Enjoying the lilting melody, I thought I gotta get one of these! 

            

            “That was great Rebecca (or Madeline?) Can you play any Simon and Garfunkel songs?”

                        

            “Sure!”

            

            She gently played “Kathy’s Song” and then “The Sounds of Silence” while the other girl accompanied her humming and occasionally singing the lyrics. 

            

            We exchanged addresses, phone numbers as we got to know each other. One was local to the Kingston, NY area; the other was from Wildwood Crest down on the Jersey shore. Both were classmates at Kings College in Pa. I explained that I was a taping and reaming worker at a factory in Morris Plains NJ and planned to start Morris County College sometime in the next year. 

 

            When traffic once again stalled, the girls talked things over between themselves and decided to “hoof it” for the remaining couple of miles. Once again I took out the gallon can of water I always kept in the trunk, let the engine cool enough to remove the radiator cap, and topped off the coolant. The heat waves were still noticeable. The conversation became a bit strained as the girls decided to get on with their wondrous adventure! 

 

            “Gotta go! Don’t want to miss Joanie. She should be on today, and the radio says Dylan may even show!” one of them said. Both were clearly excited about that prospect. So was I, but first I would have to park the MG somewhere soon and hike the rest of the way. Joan Baez and maybe Bob Dylan? If not for my undying loyalty to the MG, I would have left it on a roadside and joined them.

 

            “Thanks for the ride, Joe. Let’s catch up at the gate!”

 

            “Sure. Thanks for the sandwich-- and the tunes! I’ll look for you!” 

 

            After getting departing kisses on my cheeks from both, my thoughts of weekend romance leading to a long-term relationship and eventual marriage, kids, and a home in the hills of Morris County evaporated as I watched the pair become one with the multitudes in front of me. Poof! went THAT cloud!

 

            The empty seat offered a spot for a carrousel of passengers who rotated in-and-out, on-and-off the fenders for the next couple of miles. I became a taxi to the caravan of the stop-and-go traffic on 17b, all of us headed for White Lake and the fabulous Woodstock music festival! 

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            Just before I parked on a lawn with a sign proclaiming itself Aquarius Parking $2.00 per day, I encountered a group of five or so walking, led by a guy who was a spitting image of Jimi Hendrix. Later, I read that a lot of people saw a 'Jimi Hendrix' on the road that that day. This ‘Jimi’ had the fringy vest and the slightly stoned countenance of the real Jimi, but it wasn’t him. 

 

            “Hey, mind if we hop on?” 

 

            “Sure, but I’m parking it here in a few hundred yards.” 

 

            ‘Jimi’ Just smiled and said, “Doesn’t matter. I just need to sit for a minute. Want a sip?” He handed me a jug of red wine. I wasn’t a wine connoisseur; ‘Boons Farm’ and ‘Annie Green Springs’ were the extent of my oenophile experience. 

 

            “Oh yeah. Thanks!” I was parched and took a couple of long swigs from the jug. It was powerful tasting, but wet and satisfied my parched throat. Why didn’t I bring more soda?

 

            “Be careful! Not so much! That’s electric wine, man!” he laughed.

 

            “Oh. Okay. Thanks!” I passed the jug to a floppy-hatted, bell-bottomed girl who was straddling my front fender. I figured the wine was “electrified” with some sort of hallucinogenic, but I was too naïve to comprehend the implications.  

            

            “Last stop!” ‘Jimi’ sang out like a train conductor from a ‘40s movie once we stopped. The group left my little roadster with lots of good wishes and pleasant banter.  

 

            “Have a nice trip!” My bell-bottomed beauty sang over her shoulder.

 

            Oh geez! What was I in for now?! I wondered.

 

           “See you at the gate!” I yelled back trying to conceal my disappointment over losing their company. 

 

            After putting  the MG in a spot on the grass strategically suited for fast access to 17b, I grabbed my little carry bag and proceeded to hike the last few miles to Hurd Road. 

 

            Helicopters thumped in loud circles above us, while police prowled the roadway in cars and on horseback. Uniformed foot patrols shouted commands through bullhorns in an effort to keep everyone moving, lending to the noisy, surrealistic atmosphere. Maybe the wine was having an effect.

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            On the way up the road, I was just about run down by a jerk on a motorcycle. He stopped, swung his bike around and asked if I wanted to “make something out of it.” He was a vision out of ‘Easy Rider,” bearded, sporting a denim cut with some sort of MC patch, but without the authenticity of a for-real badass biker. I declined the offer. He made a show of spinning his bike around and continued on his way to torment other pedestrians, I supposed.  When will these idiots ever go away and leave the rest of us in peace?

 

            I finally got to a nonexistent admission gate. By now it had been flattened, along with 50 yards of adjacent chain-link, crushed by sheer volume of humanity. Further down, displays and makeshift vendor tables stood.  One, bannered as “The Hog Farm,” was offering free bread and water. Interesting, I thought, remembering I saw the same water a few miles back the locals were selling in small paper cups for a dollar. 

            

            No one was officially selling or taking tickets. Some guys loitered around, looking for gullible attendees, holding up tickets for sale. I laughed to myself. I figured I would be buying tickets from an ad I saw in ’The Village Voice’ , but decided I would buy them at the gate instead. Ha! I didn’t need any stinkin’ tickets!  

 

            I made my way into the grounds and found a place to sit down on the mowed cow pasture grass. My cut-off vest and carry bag provided cushioning from the dry, scratchy field grass.  From what I remember,  it wasn’t that far from the stage. 

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            The band on stage was ‘Sweetwater’ performing Motherless Child. After their set, helicopter noise buzzed overhead along with a cacophony of PA announcements from the stage, mostly about people trying to connect with other people i.e., “Mitzy, come back to the car. Your medicine is there,” that kind of stuff. 

 

            The port-a-johns were still functional but lines and the stench of exhausted units made the thickets, trees and shrubs better alternatives. 

 

            Random people passing by would smile and sometimes hug me. Some were obviously in their own worlds. So was I. Was it the ‘electric wine’?  I wasn’t sure.

 

            I heard that some people experienced wonderful visions and insights while on an acid trip, while others became paranoid and wanted to get away from anywhere to anywhere they perceived as ‘safe’. I was in the latter category. At this point my rambling inner voice began to cry “Danger! Danger!” 

 

            I looked around for a comforting hand or friendly face. Though there were plenty, they didn’t belong to me. I was alone. I had to get away.

 

            Were was I? What was I doing here? Why did I come here?  Pull yourself together, Joe!

 

            After a few more sets, I stood up, said my ‘goodbyes’ to my new neighbors, and made my way back down Hurd Road to 17b. Bert Sommer or Tim Hardin were on stage while I continued along 17b. More people were coming in, using both sides of the road while cop cars and helicopters overhead tried to manage order to the whole mess.

 

            “Stay on the proper side of the road! Violators will be arrested!” commanded a voice booming through a crackling bullhorn.  

 

            When I arrived back at the Aquarius Parking lot, I found my poor little MGA with both taillights broken and only a single headlamp operational. I hoped to get out of here before dark.

 

            Then the rain started! 

 

            Top up, window secured in place, engine started okay, no one blocking me in, I made my way to 17b after crossing myself. 

 

            Once on the highway I found myself in a worse crawl that when entering the place!

 

            “Hey, hi. Can you give me a lift?” came a voice from outside from

a guy about my age. He had a confused look with a tinge of fear on his face.

 

            “Sure. Get in. Where are you going?” 

 

            “Eventually back to Brandeis near Boston, but NJ would work.  I have friends in New Brunswick.” was his reply.

 

            “Okay. New Brunswick it is.” 

 

            The rain subsided, but it was now getting dark. I explained my lighting dilemma and suggested we may have to stop for the night at any motel we could find along the way. We stopped at a couple of motels but all were either full or didn’t like our looks. 

            

            “I’ll take you to New Brunswick.”

            

            ”Maybe I could crash at your place?

 

            “No, that won’t work,” I said, thinking about the crummy place where I was living with my mom and three sisters.

 

             The ride to New Brunswick was smooth enough except for the lack of light and the anemic performance of my MG’s single-speed windshield wipers. My portable radio kept us informed about what was going on in White Lake and provided some good music celebrating the event. 

 

            When we arrived in New Brunswick, he gave me slip of paper with his Brandeis University address and phone number.             

            

            “Thanks, Joe. If you’re ever near Boston, give me a call.”

 

            “I will. Take care, Mike!” 

 

            So I parted ways with the only person who’s information I had and who could attest to both of us being present at fabulous Woodstock, the Aquarian Music  Festival! 

 

            When I got home I told my sisters all about it. Maybe my faux ‘Jimi’ was the real deal. Who knew for sure? Was Dylan lurking about in the crowd? Good stories are like fond memories: mostly true, some blarney, always interesting, and may or may not have been influenced by electric wine!  

 

            Later that week I bought a Honer soprano recorder and a Simon and Garfunkel music book from a local FMC department store. 

 

            By September I was tooting out decent renditions of S&G songs and learned the fingering well enough to play a lot of other tunes by ear. My next challenge came with an acoustic six-string guitar purchased at the same FMC. Dreams of open mic nights and Greenwich Village coffee houses filled my head. Maybe a spot with a folk-rock group would come my way!

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