Woodstock

Toward the end of the summer in 1969 I was in the great state of Maine staying at Acadia National Park. That was the summer of Woodstock the festival of Rock and Roll, mud, and love. I however was nice and toasty warm in my little van up in Maine and the festival didn’t appeal to me because it was rainy and cool so I passed. As I was walking through camp one morning I spotted some kids my age who’s tent had gotten sopping wet because they hadn’t trenched around it and the rain had really come down the night before. They were also starving and I’d had some soup left over from the group camp for the kids that I held the night before. Over the soup they told me about Woodstock and invited me to come with them but I was really too comfortable to venture back into New York state.

Let me backup a minute and tell you I was camping out in Maine because I was on a tour of the north-east and Maine was my last stop. It had been a great tour and I was learning a lot about me and the country. It was my twenty-first year and was the longest I had ever been away from home and the furthest I’d ever been. Just bumming around and having a great time with nowhere particular to be. Just a kid on my first trip away from home, meeting people and getting used to who I might be. I had gone east from Texas all along IH-10 then up the east coast, avoiding New York City and had gone to Providence Rhode Island then my travels had taken me north. I was writing poetry, full of angst and heartbreak which was appropriate for the times, for me and the country.

I had read Steinbeck’s “Travels with Charley” the summer before and fell in love with Charley, Steinbeck and the country. I was a little unsure about the country to tell you the truth but I was willing to learn. I had learned about staying at State Park’s (the only place that was safe from being hassled) and now I was interested to learn all about National Parks. Kids, that the first and most important thing to know about the National Park System and friendly adults. On my first day in Maine I walked down to the shore-line to watch the waves crash onto the rocks. One wave was strong enough to wash pasted me and to loosen my shoes grip on the rock and I started sliding into the ocean. I had no way to stop my downward slide but a friendly hand was offered and I was saved. Another kid and his girlfriend had seen what was happening to me and he became my new best friend. A few day later I got the idea to have a cook-out and invite all the kids from around the camp to my campsite for music and food. A lot of the adults volunteered some onions, potato and stuff to cook and some beer for the older kids and we spent the day making a big pot of soup for all.

After all the kids had went home (back to camp) one father came and chased his kids home and sat and talked for hours it seemed. He’s brought some beer and we sat there until the early hours talking about life, having kids and the responsibilities of adulthood. He was the first of many men who told me that their lives and dreams were over once the kids arrived, they sounded so sad and lonely. I was the first chance they had to tell the stories of what they’d lost in their hurry to grow-up and to be adults. That had a profound effect on me and I took their story’s of lose to heart. The dad and I became friends for the time we had and I was invited on day trips and became the recipient of their left over food when they left. In fact I became such a regular feature of the park and the campfires that I really didn’t have to worry about food for the remainder of my stay. I was living a charmed existence except for not calling home to check in and my mother was getting frantic. But I was twenty-one and I was having the time of my life and couldn’t be bothered.