Revisting Woodstock

This piece has been in the works for a while. Please feel free to relive your own Woodstock memories by listening to awesome music. As a prude, I don't recommend some of the other activities rumored to have occurred at the original. Please post feedback below. Thanks.

People swathed in bright tie-dye, cut off shorts, and loose peasant dresses milled around me. I still couldn’t believe where I found myself. My mother’s insistence somehow persuaded me to have my own Woodstock experience, so I drove out to the farm at the edge of town where some local nouveau hippies were holding a celebration of Woodstock. Representatives of local law enforcement watched those in attendance with speculative eyes. I walked toward the entrance slowly, pausing under a canopy that had been set up outside the barn.

“I’m here for the Woodstock experience.” I forced the words out with a smile.

“First we need you to sign in. You can leave your address if you want.”

I couldn’t tell which of three men spoke. Long, shaggy hair poured over two sets of shoulders. Thick dreads somehow accented the high cheekbones and caramel complexion of the third. I took the clipboard he offered me and hastily scribbled my name and address.

“Leave your false self at the door.” The man with the long dreads smiled at me as he pointed to a wall lined with unlabeled bins.

As the scent of patchouli drifted over me and two bodies pressed against me from behind, I frowned at him. He pointed to the bins again. I could feel my face drawing tight in annoyance.

“That is not who you are.”

My eyes followed the trajectory of his gaze. My lips pulled further downward as they rested on the cell phone in my hand. I shook my head.

“You can’t have the real experience if you can’t be yourself.” He flashed me his smile again.

I smiled back. I shook my head, but my cell phone banged against the bottom of one of the bins.

“I hope I can trust the honor system.”

He smiled at my flippant remark and pulled back the strands of shimmering beads that formed a door to what promised to be a historical experience. I stepped through the curtain but stopped as I looked at the people before me. Music from my mother’s childhood reverberated through the cavernous open space.

Right inside the door, an old man with long wisps of gray hair tied back by a thick strip of leather 

recited the mantra, “It’s not the same, man. It’s not the same.”

The younger man at his side shook his head. “You always told me that Woodstock has always been for the young.”

Pondering my own nearing old age, I steeled myself, forcing my trepidation further down into my stomach. Knotted up in those depths, it couldn’t keep me from taking a few more steps into the room. 

As my feet sank into a couple of inches of thick mud, I giggled. Every footstep squeaked and slurped. The mud tried to suck me backward.

“Hey, Joe. Welcome to the new Woodstock.” A man coated in mud exclaimed as he slid into me, pulling me to the ground.

I opened my mouth to inform him my name was not Joe. Mud squished into every opening from my open mouth to the ends of my pants legs. I shivered as the cold mud coated the thin cotton of my shirt. The mud man wrapped his arms around me and pulled me deeper into the mud.

“There you go, sugar. You needed to loosen up a little.” He kissed my cheek before letting me go.

He released me in time to be enveloped in the warm embrace of woman coated in mud except for a few locks of washed-out red hair. “Welcome.”

Another woman joined us, wrapping her arms around my shoulder and swaying with me. Then they were both singing along to the song blaring from the speakers, “Hey, Joe”. I didn’t know the words, but I picked up the tune and hummed along.

The next song made me smile as I remembered a television show I watched when I was younger. I sang along when the chorus came up, singing as loud as my new friends, “I get by with a little help from my friends.”

A feeling of peace washed over me. In that moment, I understood who I was and how I connected to the world around me. The music washed over and through me, carrying me away from my worries and drawing me into a family made of strangers who sang with me, at me, to me.

The man with the dreads spoke the truth. I found myself without my lifeline to the world. It waited for me in a vat of mud and the embraces of strangers. I didn’t bother to claim my cell phone from the bin on the way out. I didn’t need it anymore.

It arrived on my doorstep a week later with a note. “Trust the honor system.”

Remember Me?

Ever wonder what the past would say if it could write you a letter?

I lift the lid of the mailbox, peering inside to find the standard array of bills and junk mail. Nestled among the long envelopes demanding money, a square envelope draws my eye. A childish hand penned my address in large block letters and addressed it to a nickname I thought was forgotten but didn’t give a return address. The rest of the envelopes slide onto the table just inside the door as I gently tear open the envelope. A few pieces of yellowed stationery slide out into my hand. As I begin to read, my brow furrows in confusion and tears form in the corners of my eyes.

Dear Bella,

I hear that is what everyone calls you now. I remember when your brothers used to call you Belly as they tickled you until you cried. Do you remember being that young? Have you forgotten me? Or do you remember how often I was the one to dry your tears?

You used to love me. You loved the feel of my soft fur on your face as you snuggled into sleep. You even loved my rich, deep voice. You loved when I sang “Proud Mary” because I sounded just like John Fogerty. I loved when you would sing along even though you were always out of tune.

In fact, there wasn’t anything about you I didn’t love. I loved the way you always smelled of sugar and dirt. I miss the mud pies you made for me even though I never ate them. I long for our adventures in the woods and quiet nights when you struggled to stay awake a little longer to watch the moon come up with me.

I remember everything. I even remember the night you went away with your mother and your brothers. You left so quickly, leaving me behind. By the time you came back, I was nowhere to be found. I like to believe you looked for me before being distracted by some new toy that your father bought out of guilt.

You thought they gave me away to another child who needed to be loved, didn’t you? Parents lie. They claim they are protecting you, but sometimes they just want to protect themselves from their own mistakes. I hope your forgive them. They love you as much as I do.

Where have I been? I’ve been gathering dust in the attic of your old house. I could have stayed here forever. I would have waited for you to come back, no matter how long it took. But they have discovered me. My fur is matted and covered in dust and mold. My once shiny, black eyes are now pitted and dull. They don’t want me. I don’t blame. I’ll go back to the trashcan after I mail this letter, but I had to write to you.

I know even you couldn’t love me now, but I still love you. Take care of yourself. You will always be my little girl, who wrapped her arms around me and dragged me along the grass because she wasn’t tall enough to keep my feet off the ground. I hope you had other friends to comfort you. I hope you still do. Just think of me from time to time, your first love, your first stuffed animal.

Love always,

Brown Dog

I read through the letter another time. Tears pour down my cheeks.

“Oh, Brown Dog, I do remember you.”

I place the letter on the table next to the unopened mail and step over to the stereo. I close my eyes and remember being young as Brown Dog sings “Proud Mary” for me one more time.

Good Eye

“It’s time to go back in.” Tracey mumbles as she rises from her uncomfortable seat in the waiting room.

I pretend not to hear her, allowing my head to rest on my hands as I stare at the white linoleum tiles under my feet. Silence doesn’t fool her. She wraps slender fingers around my arm, pulls me from my chair, and guides me toward the long hallway.

“Stop that.” I pull free, ignoring the scratches her nails leave on my arm as I step back toward the waiting room.

“You have to come say goodbye to her, Viv. She’s our grandmother.”

“But…” My lips purse as I try to sort through my thoughts.

She reaches for me again, placing her hands gently on shoulders. “Just look at her hands. That is what I always do.”

“I can’t. I always look up.”

She offers me a reassuring smile. “…and then you look away and she laughs.”

One hand slides down my arm to take my hand. This time, I don’t resist as she pulls me along the corridor. I try not to focus on the sounds of labored breathing coming from most of the rooms we pass. I focus on the tiles underfoot, hoping they will help me forget where we are. My nostrils flare as the aroma of disinfectant grows stronger. I raise my free hand to diffuse the smell. I allow my hand to fall at my side as I follow my sister into an open door to our left.

“My girls.” A hoarse whisper greets us.

“Hello, grandma.” We answer in unison as our hands clutch each other more tightly.

My eyes wander along the pink fleece blanket that covers her emaciated legs. Equally thin arms rest on the outside of the blanket. Fingers twisted by arthritis into claws tremble as she beckons us closer.

“I love my girls.” Her thin, pale lips stumble over the words before forming a smile.

My eyes wander from her lips to her eyes for only a second. The left eye focuses on my face, clear and blue, while the right floats in a milky cloud. Though I know I should be used to seeing this blind orb, my stomach clenches and twists within me. She doesn’t notice or ignores my reaction, patting the edge of the bed.

“Come closer.” As we obey she continues to whisper. “I’m glad you love me. I’m glad you have each other.”

“We do love you.” My sister speaks for both of us as tears choke back my own words.

“I will always love you, my girls. You must always love each other.” Her voice tapers off at the end of her plea and my eyes seek out her face.

My grandmother’s eyes close one last time. With parchment eyelids between me and the windows to her soul, I am finally able to look directly at her serene face. A single tear slips from my eye as my sister enfolds me in her arms.

Tooth Thief

I apologize again for last week's neglect. Hopefully, today's submission inspires you to forgive me and helps you welcome the upcoming holiday weekend.

A clatter interrupts the stillness of night. I roll toward my husband to find that his wall of sleep is too thick to breach. No matter how much I shake him, he doesn’t even moan an acknowledgement. As another clatter echoes up the stairwell, I slip out from under the covers. I pause with my hand reaching toward the door.

Shaking my head, I turn back to survey the bedroom in the dim glow of moonlight. My eyes rest on the Maglite that always sits on my end table. Quickly crossing the distance between us, I pick up the Maglite and start toward the door again. The weight of the long handle gives me courage to walk toward the noise.

Stepping into the hall, I hear a slight buzzing sound accompanied by the rustle of paper. Tentative steps bring me to the top of the stairwell. Looking over the banister, I see a soft blue glow emanating from the living room. Careful to avoid the squeaky second step, I wend my way down the staircase until I can press myself up against the wall to the living room. Inching forward, I am finally able to peek into the room. I stifle a gasp of surprise.

A tiny woman with long, delicate wings floats three feet above the floor in my living room. Blond curls cascade down her back, tied away from her face with a thick pink ribbon. A white pinafore with pockets that look like huge molars covers a dress of pale blue. She holds a scepter with a large smiling tooth atop it in one hand. The other hand busily searches through the Easter baskets that await my children and the morning. She picks up and quickly drops the small toys and books that nestle amongst the colorful grasses without showing any interest, but pockets all of the chocolate. As I inhale sharply in disapproval, she notices she is no longer alone.

“Shouldn’t you be in bed?” Her voice sounds like a song.

“What are you doing here?” I counter.

“Visiting.”

“But my children haven’t lost any teeth in months.”

The tooth fairy snorts derisively. “Yes, dental hygiene is putting me out of business.”

“So you’re stealing their candy?” Bewilderment sets in.

“They don’t deserve it if they won’t let their teeth rot out of their heads.” She fires back as she points her wand at me.

The smiling molar vibrates and a blue bolt of electricity leaps out at me. I duck reflexively, turning in time to see the painting behind me burst into flames. I turn back toward the tooth fairy. She has raised her wand again.

As she sends another bolt of electricity toward me, I press the button on the Maglite. Startled by the beam of light, she poofs out of existence. The bolt of electricity sails over my shoulder to set a second painting on fire. The fire alarm goes off. My husband and children stumble down the stairs in a sleep-induced stupor as I smother the last flickering flame and move to silence the smoke detector. The children find distraction in their baskets of goodies, but my husband looks as if he wants an explanation. I return his stunned gaze, searching for the correct one.