My Woodstock

Students used to ask me if I went to Woodstock, and that’s different from the question “Were you at Woodstock?” and it’s all happenstance, accident. My whole life in those days was left to accident. I was a seeker often sidetracked by trying to control the outcome of my search, but the trip to Woodstock came as a surprise, and, “No, I wasn’t at Woodstock.” I was living with a guy, not really boyfriend, and not really lover as I wasn’t in love with him—he was a temporary living arrangement, also accidental but a life-saver who took me in like a lost puppy. A friend who shared his bed and apartment with me in trade for sex , cooking, and light housework, fun, laughing—hanging out--whatever. Of course, he was a dish and his apartment was to die for, or I’d never have done it. Call me whore, slut, floozy, whatever—I was waiting for my prince to get out of the Army and times were tough given my mental imbalances, etc. But this guy M, call him boyfriend for simplicity, came back to our very cool pad on Fell Street in the Haight-Ashbury that day and told me he’d gotten us a ride to Woodstock—the biggest be-in, concert, happening ever. I hadn’t even heard about it—like who had a radio or read the papers—not me. Square existence was not my cup of tea. I think I had time to throw some stuff in a sack and off we went.
M liked vacations and adventures—we’d been to Jerome, Arizona, the rivers of Mendocino Country, and knew the beaches, the marina, the park, and parts of the city like our own faces. I didn’t have any of that crazy mad lust love and possession stuff going on with M. He was cool. I dressed him up in blue velvet bell bottoms, made him eat right and sleep enough, and he was like a part-time job. He actually gave me cash for my efforts. His pot dealing income was enough to pay our rent and give us a little fun money—not much, but we didn’t need much. We sanded and re-did the oak floors in the high-ceilinged setback Victorian off Fell St., the Panhandle part of Golden Gate Park which I loved we painted the kitchen blue—had a few sticks of furniture, a tiny TV. I was happy enough just playing hippie housewife—kind of like my mom but no car, no kids, no whiskey or wine—lots of pot, peyote, and well, we won’t bore ourselves with lists.
So anyway, the ride shows up and it’s five guys in a pick-up with an overhead camper. I didn’t know any of these guys. M and I were paying gas first so we sat up front with the driver and we weren’t too far out of the city before I figured out that the guys in the camper were sitting on a truck bed lined with kilos—more weed than I ever wanted to see much less ride across country with. I had a pretty good radar for trouble and half way across the state of California from San Francisco, I knew I wasn’t going to make it to Woodstock—I was too chicken to take such a huge risk all for someone else’s profit—no one was talking cutting me in and I didn’t deal dope anyway. Not a shred of salesmanship in me except for plying my own wares, sadly enough, and I knew a guy in Oregon doing hard time, five years, for a roach.

“I’m getting out in Reno,” I told M when we stopped for our first tank of gas. “I’ll fly back to the city cheap—just give me some cash.” He tried to talk me out of it, but I told him I was too uncomfortable. I felt uncomfortable and didn’t even like the guys—they were giving off bad vibes. There must have been a thousand pounds of weed, a solid floor of wrapped kilos, each about the size of a big dictionary. I said, “You can go; I just don’t wanna be in the truck with these guys and all their pot.” He knew I’d do whatever I damn well wanted; I was stubborn enough to hitch-hike. We’d be in deep doodoo if busted. M was pissed, but insisted on flying home with me because he didn’t want to lose me I’d guess, pretty as I was, and hip.