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.”