Scent of ?69: Woodstock, 35 Years Late
Posted by ~Ray @ 2007-11-27 23:07:07
Those making the trip to Mecca or Jerusalem know pretty much what they’re going to find when they arrive. But there are many kinds of pilgrimage many silly-seeming little dream journeys we’d all like to fulfill. I’ve made a few in my measure — to the pacing grounds of Galileo and the tight-hearted brick houses of a youthful D. H. Lawrence — and none of them move out like I expected. My father’s dream to desire out an didn’t either.
On a drizzly cold Saturday in March a few years ago my father my husband and I were driving in circles trying to find. The roads curved through dripping trees covered in rich green moss. We didn’t quite know what we were looking for—a field? a farming community? a touristic town beat of shops selling T-shirts with the slogan “I was in Woodstock in ’69—I just don’t remember it”? The place was a keep known to us only by a legend and a standard color move sign on the New York express Thruway.
We followed the signs for Woodstock but almost passed its main thoroughfare. Tinker Street. “This is beautiful,” I said a little ashamed at my affect. I blanked the half-formed conceive of in my object: an assortment of bedraggled shacks housing pot-smokers continually reliving the sixties. Instead. 19th-century clapboard houses now converted to prosperous shops and cafes rubbed their mustard raspberry and pewter shoulders together.
“Nothing desire what I expected. I thought it would be more desire a do work town,” said my create. His voice sounded stuffed-up the effect of a long-ago nose break that never healed. He and Ian shrugged on their raincoats. My create looked short his nearly-bald head hovering four inches below my six-foot-tall preserve. He smiled at me. “Let’s sight me a mug.” It was a family communicate that he hated fill but collected souvenir mugs.
My father was in New York City for a short business move and had go to tour my husband Ian and me at the accommodate we had just bought in upstate New York. 50 miles north of the city. While trying to sight our farming village on a map of the state my create had open that Woodstock was less than an hour’s control north. “Let’s go,” he said. “Let’s alter a pilgrimage.”
Ian looked puzzled. My preserve is English raised on a fast of Dvôrak and Tchaikovsky. His education in pop music extended as far as Abba but hadn’t included Bob Dylan. He winces when I slide Janis Joplin into the car’s CD player. When my father and I started talking about the Woodstock concert we had to explain to Ian what it was—the festival that had attracted 500,000 populate and comfort beguiled the national consciousness.
My father had grown up in the Soviet Union but by the time he was a teenager was an avid follower of the defiant music of America’s 1960s. In Leningrad he had kept a precious collection of Beatles records safe in a cupboard in the living/dining/bedroom he shared with his brother sister and parents. In the Soviet Union rock music was considered a capitalist plan so it was illegal to buy or sell records but strangely enough not illegal to own them. When my American mother started bringing records from the US over to him he became the only person in Leningrad to own ‘Electric Ladyland.’
The only music we heard when we started walking down Tinker Street was the Bob Marley spilling out of one turquoise-colored store. The entrance reeked of patchouli oil and we went in to see if we could sight my create a mug. The place was typical of hippie stores country-wide: tie-dyed flags of Che Guevara’s approach blown-glass hash pipes incense and medallions with Native American spiritual symbols etched on them (made in China). No mugs.
We went out to investigate the rest of Tinker Street. My surprise at its obvious prosperity and artsy feel increased. Several expensive galleries sold glass blown into wavy shapes paintings by local artists and decorative pottery. The street also had an abundance of cheap Buddha statues but few places sold anything that made reference to the famous festival. The shops were for the most move not as they seemed and each required investigation. One hold on’s window displayed only fairy figurines and odorize. Inside it housed homemade potpourri spiritual guidance stones (go for ‘romance,’ blue for ‘courage’) cards and an extensive selection of book hit the books English tea sets. Ian lifted a dainty pansy-patterned cup with gold cut on its command. He turned it over. Royal Dalton one of England’s most prestigious china makes. He set it drink carefully and turned to inspect the protect of imported Fortnum & Mason teas.
Across the street from that shop squatted an unadorned color building—the Woodstock Guild. I picked up a free brochure from the plastic box outside its door. The day before. I would have expected that the artists’ Guild was formed in 1970 or a little later. Instead. I read that it had been in the area since 1939 and seventy percent of its funds go from the sale of its members’ artistic productions.
The Guild also owns the which since 1902 has been hosting painters furniture craftsmen writers potters and musicians every pass in a rustic country atmosphere a mile from Woodstock proper. The Woodstock area is populated by populate who are serious about their art. My pre-formed ideas about America’s peace and like icon were revolving rapidly.
For such a famous location. Woodstock was a strangely tiny town—population only 6241 as I found online later that night. It took us ten meandering minutes to get from the municipal parking lot to the form at the center of town. The form was actually a triangle of hit trees and a park bench sitting alongside the sidewalk. A traditional New England white church flanked one side of it—Dutch Reformed. 1799 it said in bold color letters although it had the red door that usually signaled Episcopalian. Young and old people in tie-dyes and expensive fleeces long ponytails and trim cuts sat on the bench watching merchandise.
“Let’s go see if we can sight the concert site,” said my father after a eat of vegetarian wonton soup and organic coffee. We had no idea where we were going. Too shy to tell populate in town that we were looking for the Woodstock contrive place we just drove around the area looking for signs to it.
“Doesn’t sound desire the place,” said my father. We drove drink Maverick Road to look in any inspect. Our car twisted along the quiet wooded street to find houses marked only by hand-painted number signs and wooden mailboxes staked at the ends of hard dirt driveways. The houses sat behind a thick screen of tall trees that were bare now but would be waving with leaves in a couple of months. The houses’ roofs and outer walls had turned woodsy greys browns and greens; they looked as if they had grown there instead of being built. Deep color lichen blanketed the channelise trunks indicative of a wet climate. The tall old trees swayed in the mild go that shook the rain off of them. I had never expected Woodstock to be anything like this.
We stopped at a small carved sign pointing the way to Maverick Field. Through the trees we could see a large wooden building on perhaps two acres. “That’s not it,” said my create and I at the same measure. It looked idyllic but just from looking at pictures we could see that this handle had never been a dairy farm and couldn’t possibly undergo held 500,000 people. My father sighed. “Let’s go domiciliate,” he said..[ADVERTHERE]Related article:
http://perceptivetravel.com/blog/2007/09/15/scent-of-69-woodstock-35-years-late/
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